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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808106">Sixty-One New Messages</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux'>annabellelux</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And a dash of smut, Baz is That Guy who corrects your spelling mistakes, Canon Divergence, Gay Panic! In The Catacombs, I wrote this as a gift for my beta but you can read it too, M/M, Mostly humor, With a Spoonful of Angst, don't mind the angst, flirting camouflaged as insults, magickal creature discourse, shhhh no one tell Simon he's pining, texting fic, there's a happy ending i swear</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:15:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808106</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabellelux/pseuds/annabellelux</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the summer before eighth year and Simon Snow is terribly bored. That is, until he finds his old Black Berry buried at the bottom of his backpack. And sure, Baz Pitch's might be the only saved number he can message... but then again, why not check in on him? Just to make sure he's not plotting. And maybe to ask his opinion on how mermaids pee.</p><p>Sworn enemies can text, right?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>407</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Completed Snowbaz Favourites</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Boy Division</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedfetish/gifts">thedaggerrose (blessedfetish)</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy birthday to the lovely <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedfetish/pseuds/thedaggerrose">@thedaggerrose</a>! You are a wonderful friend and beta and human being and I'm very happy that our mutual love of a disaster dragon boy and his dramatic gay vampire boyfriend forged a friendship based on fandom discourse, complaints about our academic pursuits, impassioned cries for better WLW fiction, the grave understanding that time is fake, and other unforgettable WhatsApp monologues. </p><p>Here's a fic I've already sent you, but I'm putting on the internet for other people too. Also, I've made all the chapters titles of My Chemical Romance songs that I feel best fit the vibe, to further appeal to your emo heart. I adore you.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>If all my enemies threw a party<br/>Would you light the candles?<br/>Would you drink the wine while watching television?<em><br/>Boy Division, My Chemical Romance</em></em>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Special thanks to the wonderful <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu">@giishu</a> for beta-ing and being my sounding board!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p> </p><p>I'm staring at the ceiling of my bedroom at this summer's home, watching a moth fly repeatedly to the lightbulb on the ceiling. It keeps getting burned. There’s a wicked hissing noise every time it touches it—emphasizing the fact that the action is clearly painful. But it won't fucking stop. The thing is relentlessly drawn to the light, no matter how bad it is for it, no matter how dangerous it is, no matter the fact it never <em> wins.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I can't stop thinking that I am just like that bloody moth. </p><p> </p><p>I feel my magic bubbling under my skin, threatening to spill over the edge, and I keep wondering to myself—how many times will I burn before I go up in flames? </p><p> </p><p>I can't stop the thoughts this summer. Not the ones of the Humdrum, or my destiny, or Baz. </p><p> </p><p>Baz fucking Pitch. </p><p> </p><p>I'm usually very good at forgetting all things magic over the summer holidays. I learned back when I was twelve that it's easier that way. Less painful. If I focus too much on my real home, I'll think myself in circles. If I spend two months counting all the ways the Normal world pales in comparison to the Magickal world, I'll go mad. Instead, I put it in a "Do Not Touch" box in my brain, and unpack it all come late August, letting myself pine for the entirety of the train ride to Watford.</p><p> </p><p>But Baz has always been a completely different story. There's not a box in the world that could fit him. </p><p> </p><p>The nuns take us to the park around the corner to kick the football around and I think of Baz's skill on the pitch. I watch the care home bully mock a younger boy and I think of Baz's sneering face. I see a rat crawl into a hole in the floorboard and I think, <em> hey, Baz's dinner.  </em></p><p> </p><p>There's no escape from Basilton Pitch, no matter how hard I try. </p><p> </p><p>Most of all, I think of the last expression I saw on his face when Penny and I stumbled into Watford (crying and covered in blood, respectively). I've spent six years cataloguing all of his expressions. He's only got four: pissed off, sadistically amused, plotting, and disgusted.</p><p> </p><p>Well, five now. Those four, and whichever one I elicited out of him that day. </p><p> </p><p>All day I think of his stupid face. But I suppose it's better than my nights; I spend that time thinking about the Humdrum. About how, at any moment, he could snatch me from my bed. About how powerful he is. About how he's wearing my face. About how I'm the only one who can stop him. </p><p> </p><p>I already knew that—every Mage in the UK knows I'm the Chosen One. But there's a difference between knowing something and—well—<em> knowing </em> it. Believing it. Internalizing it. </p><p> </p><p>I'm the only one who can stop him, but I haven't got a bloody idea how I'm supposed to do that. </p><p> </p><p>I don't know how to reckon with the fact that I'm not the brave hero I'm supposed to be—that, really, I'm just scared shitless.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't even really matter, though. I'm going to keep trying. What other choice do I have? </p><p> </p><p>I'm the moth. My destiny's the flame. </p><p> </p><p>And I've got no choice but to burn.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>I think the days are getting longer. The hours drag on in a smothering heat, and the nights lag in mundane agony. I don't want to sleep, because the nightmares are nightly now. But there's no relief in being awake either.</p><p> </p><p>More than anything—more than I'm hungry, or angry, or scared—I'm bored. </p><p> </p><p>(And painfully, insufferably lonely.) </p><p> </p><p>I always hated that I couldn't just go to the Wellbelove's place over the summer. (Though, truthfully, I think Agatha would've hated that. She always seemed uncomfortable that I tagged along every Christmas holiday, and I've always felt a tad like an intruder there.) I'm so isolated that, at this point, I'd be glad if Penny possessed one of the nuns at this care home so we could chat. Anything to pass the time—any proof that magic is real. Any proof that <em> I'm </em> real. (Orphan boy with uncontrollable magic sounds a bit like the plot to a blockbuster movie, honestly.) </p><p> </p><p>I wonder what Baz is doing right now. Probably draining all the rats in his mansion dry. (Though, if he lives in a mansion, it probably isn't infested with rats.) I'm sure he's not bored or lonely. He's probably got a fleet of servants to cater to his every whim. When he's feeling restless, like I am right now, he probably just calls up Dev or Niall on his phone and—</p><p> </p><p>Wait a minute. </p><p> </p><p>My phone. </p><p> </p><p>I jump up, startling a boy a couple bunks down out of his sleep, and rush over to my backpack, throwing items out at random. Penny spelled the bag to be bottomless, so it fits a lot more than it looks like it will. It takes me a minute, but finally, at the bottom of my bag, I find it. A red 2008 BlackBerry. </p><p> </p><p>The Mage gave it to me back when I was eleven, to keep in touch during the months before term began my first year. I had nearly forgotten about it, since he banned electronics only a few months into that school year. I hold down the power button, willing it to turn on. </p><p> </p><p><em> Please, </em> I pray so zealously I fear I'll put magic into the wish. Then, I smell smoke, and I'm fairly certain I <em> have </em> pushed some magic into it. But I don't care. Because finally— <em> finally </em>—I see the BlackBerry logo light up the screen. I bite back a whoop of joy. </p><p> </p><p>The phone's old, so it's slow, but it works. Merlin, I have a connection to the magickal world! I can call Penny!</p><p> </p><p>But when I go to my contacts list, I see I only have two numbers: the Mage and Baz Pitch. </p><p> </p><p>Bugger me. </p><p> </p><p>I can't call the Mage. He would disapprove of me using my phone; he'd say that it's a security liability. (He's hated technology since he found out some of the students were using pictures of him as memes back in first year.) </p><p> </p><p>And my only other option is Baz.</p><p> </p><p>I remember clearly when we had to exchange numbers. It was part of the first day orientation—a standard get-to-know-your-roommate thing. We were supposed to play games to get to know each other, ask one another fun facts: our favorite colours and movies, that sort of thing. </p><p> </p><p>I was actually quite excited about it, honestly. Until Baz stood there scowling the whole time. He seemed furious that I had the audacity to ask him personal questions. (He had already decided we were going to loathe one another, and by the end of that day, I was halfway there myself.) Part of it was that we had to exchange numbers, and Baz did it with such exaggerated reluctance that I considered deleting it from my phone immediately. </p><p> </p><p>I'm glad I didn't.</p><p> </p><p>It's not ideal, but it looks like texting Baz is my only option.</p><p> </p><p>I stare at my phone for several moments, thinking up what to say. When I finally settle on something, it takes me another minute to get used to the mini-keyboard of the BlackBerry.</p><p> </p><p><b>Me (11:13 P.M.): </b>have you murdered anyone yet??</p><p> </p><p>My adrenaline spikes as soon as I hit 'send.' I feel more alive than I've felt in weeks, awakening at the mere prospect of a connection to the magickal world. Even if that connection is just Baz. </p><p> </p><p>But the minutes drag by without a reply, and my heart rate slows as I start to think Baz isn't actually going to answer. Maybe he's asleep. Or maybe he's got my number blocked. Or maybe he's just going to ignore me. </p><p> </p><p>But just as I'm about to hide the phone in my pillowcase so none of the other boys steal it, I hear a sharp <em> ping </em>and see my screen light up with Baz's name. I open the message immediately. </p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (11:49 p.m.): </b>Isn't that much more your style, Snow? I'm not the one regularly slaying dragons and chimaeras and mermaids in the courtyard. </p><p> </p><p>I get a rush of excitement that he answered, followed by the familiar indignation that often accompanies my fights with Baz. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (11:50 p.m.): </b>ive never killed a mermaid</p><p><b>Baz (11:52 p.m.): </b>Are you sure? How could you possibly keep track of all your kills? </p><p><b>Baz (11:53 p.m.): </b>Do you keep them listed in your diary? </p><p><b>Me (11:54 p.m.): </b>at least i dont spend my free time killing rats </p><p><b>Baz (11:55 p.m.): </b>PETA will be thrilled to hear it. </p><p> </p><p>I let out a quiet, reluctant laugh despite myself. That is, before the next message comes in. </p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (11:55 p.m.): </b>Why are you bothering me? I've got better things to do than listen to your whinging. </p><p> </p><p>I set my phone down, and roll over in my bed away from it. My stomach tosses uncomfortably as my brain turns the message over in my head. I tell myself to forget about it; that it doesn't matter that he doesn't want to talk to me; that it's just <em> Baz, </em> for Merlin's sake; that I don't really care what he thinks. </p><p> </p><p>Then I stare at the wall, and I don't sleep for hours. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Thirty-seven hours and twelve minutes. </p><p> </p><p>That's the exact amount of time it's been since Snow last texted me. </p><p> </p><p>I thought that perhaps I hallucinated the text messages from Snow. That it was some kind of weird, improbable fever dream (despite the fact that vampires don't get sick) (at least, I never have). But every time I check my phone—which is more than I'd ever admit out loud—there it is. The twenty entire words that Snow voluntarily spoke to me. The only time I've ever gotten to talk to him over the summer, and I fucked it up, like I fuck up everything when it comes to him. </p><p> </p><p>I pull out my phone again, and the messages are still there. I read them over and over again, trying to think about what else I could have said. </p><p> </p><p>I am getting far too sentimental about what is essentially just Snow throwing accusations my way. </p><p> </p><p>I can't think of anything but him, and I've tried every distraction tactic in the book. Violin. Football. Reading. But every song is about him. And when I score a goal, I imagine turning to the imaginary stands in my head to send him a cocky grin. And I'm inserting us into every love story I read. (It was my own mistake to think reading <em> Pride and Prejudice </em>would keep my mind off him.) </p><p> </p><p>I should let it go. Snow obviously had some kind of lapse in judgment, texting me. There must have been a lull in his summer of extorting taxes out of goblins or collecting pixie dust or whatever the fuck he does over the summer that always gets him looking so worn down. There's not a world in which he wants to hear from me, of all people. </p><p> </p><p>And yet…</p><p> </p><p>I start typing. </p><p> </p><p>I stare at the message for four entire minutes before I hit send. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (1:17 p.m.): </b>I'm planning a murder tonight. I thought you'd like to know. </p><p> </p><p>He can't ignore that, right?</p><p> </p><p>In my nightmares, I see him as he was that last day of seventh year. Torn clothing, covered in blood. </p><p> </p><p>Simon Snow, the Chosen One, the Mage's Heir, the Greatest Mage to Ever Live. </p><p> </p><p>Except he's not just those things. He's also just a boy—a mortal, human boy. Who can die. </p><p> </p><p>I don't think I really believed it until that day.</p><p> </p><p>I don't know what happened with the Humdrum, but I don't need to know the details to know nothing good causes you to ooze blood from your pores.</p><p> </p><p>Only Hell itself could make Penelope Bunce cry. </p><p> </p><p>Only something truly nefarious could make Simon look like <em> that. </em>Like he was barely hanging on by a thread. Like he'd seen a screaming banshee, warning him of his impending doom. </p><p> </p><p>It reminded me I'm not in love with an impenetrable force. That even superheroes have an Achilles’ heel. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe I would have let this go by the time we got back to Watford. But then he texted me. And now I can't stop thinking about the empty look in his eyes the last time I saw him. I can't stop worrying about whether he's safe and happy and okay. </p><p> </p><p>I need a new mental image of him to obsess over, so I can stop having nightmares about him bloody and bruised.</p><p> </p><p>As if on cue, my phone beeps. </p><p> </p><p><b>Snow (1:21 p.m.): </b>????????v</p><p><b>Snow (1:21 p.m.): </b>what the fuck baz </p><p><b>Snow (1:21 p.m.): </b>are you serious </p><p> </p><p>"Why are you smiling?" Mordelia asks. I look up from my phone to see her staring at me with a curious expression. I forgot that she was in the library with me.</p><p> </p><p>"Am I not allowed to smile?" I ask with one raised eyebrow. She raises her left one right back at me. (I don't know how in Crowley's name she learned that; she's <em> seven</em>. I must have been at least nine when I managed it.) </p><p> </p><p>"You're <em> allowed," </em> she says slowly, "but you don't."</p><p> </p><p>This child is far too precocious for her own good. I can't believe she's not a Pitch. </p><p> </p><p>"Go back to studying history," I snap. She rolls her eyes and goes back to reading our first edition copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales. (My great-great-great-great uncles were the famed historians and travelers.) (Apparently the Normals think they're all just stories. They're so naive.) </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (1:23 p.m.): </b>I'm as serious as dragon pox.</p><p><b>Snow (1:24 p.m.): </b>your an unsufferable prick</p><p><b>Me (1:25 p.m.): </b>I believe you mean *you're and *insufferable. </p><p><b>Snow (1:26 p.m.): </b>look at u proving my point </p><p><b>Snow (1:26 p.m.): </b>seriously why would u text me that</p><p> </p><p>Good question, Snow. I imagine typing back <em> because I'm desperately attracted to you, and I constantly crave your attention. </em>I think about how he would react if I said that: the way his mouth would drop open and his eyebrows would fly up. The mental image makes me want to giggle—but if I did that, Mordelia would think I've gone mad—so instead I bite my tongue and type. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (1:31 p.m.): </b>I thought you wanted updates on my nefarious plots. I thought I'd spare you the trouble of stalking after me and just tell you upfront. </p><p><b>Snow (1:32 p.m.): </b>ur taking the piss</p><p><b>Me (1:32 p.m.): </b>Out of you? Always. </p><p><b>Snow (1:33 p.m.): </b>what are u really doing</p><p> </p><p>I try to think of a clever response, but I can't. So I just answer honestly. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (1:35 p.m.): </b>I'm reading with my little sister. </p><p><b>Snow (1:35 p.m.): </b>u have a sister???</p><p><b>Me (1:36 p.m.): </b>I have four.</p><p><b>Snow (1:37 p.m.): </b>??????</p><p><b>Snow (1:37 p.m.): </b>how</p><p><b>Me (1:41 p.m.): </b>Do you really need me to explain human reproduction to you?</p><p><b>Me (1:41 p.m.): </b>I know Watford's sex education is abysmal, but honestly. </p><p><b>Snow (1:45 p.m.): </b>i know plenty about sex thanks </p><p> </p><p>His reply makes my stomach lurch with furious jealousy. Crowley, I don't want to think of him and Wellbelove like <em> that. </em> My fingers move quicker than my good sense. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (1:45 p.m.): </b>How? It's not on the curriculum at Watford. </p><p><b>Me (1:45 p.m.): </b>Did the Mage show you how to put a condom on a banana himself?</p><p><b>Snow (1:45 p.m.): </b>fuck u</p><p> </p><p>Oh, how I wish.</p><p> </p><p>I force myself to switch my phone to off so I'm not tempted to say anything else stupid. Then I grab the least sexy book I can think of—<em> Moby Dick </em>, despite its mildly intriguing title, is exceedingly dull—and prop it open on my lap to pretend to read for the next hour. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When I turn my phone back on a couple hours later, I have thirteen unread text messages. Three of those are from my group chat with Dev and Niall, but the rest are from Snow. </p><p> </p><p><b>Snow (1:52 p.m.):</b> i know about sex </p><p><b>Snow (1:52 p.m.): </b>i mean like the basics</p><p><b>Snow (1:53 p.m.): </b>theres sex education in the homes</p><p><b>Snow (1:53 p.m.): </b>and the internet </p><p><b>Snow (1:53 p.m.): </b>not that I use to internet for that</p><p><b>Snow (1:54 p.m.): </b>you know what I mean </p><p><b>Snow (2:06 p.m.): </b>all i meant was you don't seem much like the big brother type</p><p><b>Snow (2:07 p.m.): </b>because ur a git</p><p><b>Snow (2:07 p.m.): </b>and you hog the loo like an only child </p><p><b>Snow (2:45 p.m.):</b> i dont use the internet to look up sex stuff</p><p> </p><p>I feel a blush start from my chest and make its way up to my top of my head thinking about Snow googling, as he so eloquently put it, <em> sex stuff. </em> None of our conversations face to face have ever strayed this closely to romance (unless you count Snow accusing me of pursuing Wellbelove, which I decidedly <em> don't.) </em> Part of me wants to continue down this road, but the other part of me—the part with any sense of self-preservation at all—tells me to get back onto familiar territory. Or, at least, stable ground. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (4:16 p.m.): </b>Don't have an aneurysm, Snow. </p><p><b>Me (4:16 p.m.): </b>I don't need an update on your private life. </p><p><b>Snow (4:17 p.m.): </b>then why ask</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Because I'm in love with you, and I am, in fact, awfully desperate to hear about your private life, Snow. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Me (4:21 p.m.): </b>I don't recall asking. I recall you blustering your way into my inbox the same manner that you always do. Forcefully. </p><p><b>Snow (4:22 p.m.): </b>stop replying then </p><p> </p><p>It's a dare. He's goading me. I know this, and yet, it still gets my blood boiling. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't have a clue as to the real reason why, but he's well aware that I can't keep away from him for long. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (4:31 p.m.): </b>Texting etiquette is to wait a respectable amount of time before replying, not to respond as quickly as your fingers can type. </p><p><b>Snow (4:32 p.m.): </b>thats stupid </p><p> </p><p>I can hear the message in his self-righteous voice, and it makes me smile, completely involuntarily. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (4:37 p.m.): </b>Yes, well. Nonetheless, it's a well-established tradition. Ask Bunce. </p><p><b>Snow (4:38 p.m.): </b>if I had pennys number she would respond fast</p><p><b>Snow (4:39 p.m.): </b>penny doesnt care about dumb social rules </p><p> </p><p>I forget the criticism I just doled out to Snow, and draft a message—well, as quickly as my fingers can type.</p><p> </p><p><b>Me (4:39 p.m.): </b>You don't have your best friend's phone number?</p><p><b>Snow (4:40 p.m.): </b>nah</p><p><b>Me (4:40 p.m.): </b>'Nah'? Are you a caveman?</p><p><b>Snow (4:41 p.m.): </b>i only have ur number </p><p><b>Snow (4:41 p.m.): </b>well. urs and the mages</p><p><b>Me (4:42 p.m.): </b>What fine company I'm in. </p><p><b>Snow (4:43 p.m.): </b>sarcastic git</p><p> </p><p>I'm pleased he can read my tone through text message, but still confused as to his limited contact list. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (4:44 p.m.): </b>Why do you only have two contacts in your mobile?</p><p><b>Snow (4:45 p.m.): </b>who the fuck uses the word mobile</p><p><b>Snow (4:45 p.m.): </b>are you secretly 60 years old</p><p><b>Me (4:46 p.m.): </b>If you were as persistent in your study of magic as you are at dodging my questions, the Humdrum would be a history lesson by now. </p><p><b>Snow (4:46 p.m.): </b>go bugger yourself</p><p> </p><p>I start to type a reply insulting his intelligence, when the longest text he's sent me thus far comes through. </p><p> </p><p><b>Snow (4:48 p.m.): </b>I only have the blackberry the mage gave me from before 1st year. We cant use phones at watford and Im not allowed to use it over the summer while Im in the care homes so I let it die. But I was bored this summer so I turned it back on and I still had ur number from the get to know ur roommate thing </p><p> </p><p>I read the message over three times, rage and indignation warring in my stomach. </p><p> </p><p>The Mage sticks him in a care home over the summer and tells him he can't speak to anyone. The fucking soulless prick makes Simon spend his school year as his guard dog and then sticks him in a kennel for safekeeping. That's why Simon gets so melancholy the last couple days of school; that's why he comes back looking malnourished and pale and overburdened. </p><p> </p><p>No wonder he's resorted to texting the person who he thinks hates him if the person he thinks loves him is so fucking callous.  </p><p> </p><p>I want to text him back that he deserves better. That if he let me, I'd take him in. I'd take care of him and make sure he was never lonely. That I love him so much, and that I know I've spent so much time hurting him, but I never meant any of it. That he can always rely on me. That I'm here for him. </p><p> </p><p>But I'm me, and I doubt I could manage to fulfill half those promises, so I don't say any of those things. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (4:50 p.m.): </b>The get-to-know-your-roommate thing is so fucking corny. </p><p><b>Me (4:50 p.m.): </b>What benefit is there to knowing that 11-year-old you's favourite colour was green?</p><p> </p><p>My heart hammers until I get his response.</p><p> </p><p><b>Snow (4:51 p.m.): </b>maybe u would have liked it better if u didn't spend the whole time pouting like a baby </p><p> </p><p>I laugh out loud. <em> Fuck texting etiquette</em>, I think, as I type my next reply lightning quick. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! The next chapter will be up in a few days.</p><p>Come find me on <a href="https://annabellelux.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a> if you want</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Demolition Lovers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><em>I’m trying, I’m trying<br/>To let you know just how much you mean to me<br/>And after all the things<br/>We put each other through and<br/>I would drive on to the end with you<br/>A liquor store or two keeps the gas tank full<br/>And I feel like there’s nothing left to do<br/>But prove myself to you, and we’ll keep it running</em><br/>Demolition Lovers, My Chemical Romance</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all of everyone's kind words on the last chapter; I really appreciated it and am grateful for everyone who is reading this! </p><p>All my love to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedfetish/pseuds/thedaggerrose">@thedaggerrose</a> who this fic is for 💖 </p><p>Thank you again to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu">@giishu</a> for beta-ing! (especially for your invaluable help with <em>that</em> scene, you know which one)</p><p>Also thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks">@NineMagicks</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourcherrymagiks/pseuds/Sourcherrymagiks">@Sourcherrymagiks</a> for providing me niche memes I literally never would have found otherwise!! </p><p>Without further ado, here's chapter 2!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>Simon (1:15 p.m.): </b>wyd</p><p><b>Baz (1:22 p.m.): </b>I'm baking chelsea buns with my stepmother. </p><p><b>Simon (1:24 p.m.): </b>wait</p><p><b>Simon (1:24 p.m.): </b>u can bake?</p><p><b>Baz (1:26 p.m.): </b>You know that even super villains have interests, right?</p><p><b>Baz (1:27 p.m.): </b>Hitler used to paint portraits of his German Shepherds. </p><p><b>Simon (1:28 p.m.): </b>thats the weirdest fucking thing Ive ever heard</p><p><b>Baz (1:29 p.m.): </b>Seriously. Every other self-respecting super villain is a cat person.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p> </p><p>I fish my phone out of my bag as soon I make it back to the room. Tonight was movie night in the home<b>, </b>and there's a no phone policy during them. A rule I didn't mind much when I first got here, but that I find more difficult to follow now that I have both a phone and someone to text. </p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (8:06 p.m.): </b>You're very lucky I'm willing to endure speaking to you despite the fact that you are the only person in England who still has a BlackBerry. </p><p><b>Baz (8:07 p.m.): </b>I loathe to text anyone without an iPhone. It ruins the aesthetic of blue messages. </p><p> </p><p>I bite my lip as my thumbs hover over the keyboard. I should really just stop replying. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (9:59 p.m.): </b>you really are a spoiled prick huh</p><p><b>Baz (10:01 p.m.): </b>I'd rather be that than an uncultured pillock like you. </p><p> </p><p>This is how all of our messages go. Just a daily trading of insults, like we're right back at Watford. I've always complained about having an arsehole for a roommate, so I'm not quite sure why I'm spending the only two months of the year I'm free from Baz texting him. </p><p> </p><p>I could stop. I could spend the rest of the summer in isolation. I shouldn't be running up the Mage's phone bill just to remind my roommate that he's a tosser. (If the Mage is getting the bill, that is. I might be getting the messages to go through with magic.) </p><p> </p><p>But his messages are the only bright spot in my long, dull days. Seeing his name pop up on my screen gets my heart racing, just like it does when I see him walking down the hallway towards me. My body goes into fight or flight whenever Baz is near, and I always pick fight. During the endless summer, I miss the excitement of having a nemesis. Or maybe I miss the comfort of mattering. Being around Normals makes me feel crazy. Or worse, it makes me feel invisible. </p><p> </p><p>Baz may make me feel a lot of things, but invisible is never one of them. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (10:03 p.m.): </b>bugger off</p><p> </p><p>I don't actually want him to bugger off, so I type another message. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (10:04 p.m.): </b>What are you doing 2nite</p><p><b>Baz (10:05 p.m): </b>What is this, 2005? Don't ever text me the abbreviation "2nite" again.</p><p><b>Me (10:06 p.m.): </b>shut up you know my phones basically that old </p><p><b>Me (10:06 p.m.): </b>its EZer</p><p><b>Baz (10:07 p.m): </b>Don't even try to tell me that "EZer" is quicker to text than "easier." </p><p><b>Baz (10:07 p.m): </b>Statistically, it's just not. </p><p> </p><p>I smile. I only used the abbreviation to annoy him. I'm pleased to see how easily I can rile him up, even from a hundred miles away. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (10:08 p.m.): </b>how did u manage to run the numbers on that 1</p><p><b>Baz (10:08 p.m): </b>I did it in my head. </p><p><b>Baz (10:08 p.m): </b>I'm excellent at maths.</p><p> </p><p>I want to argue with him. But he <em> is </em>top of our class, after all. (Only because Penny's full-time job as my dread companion means she can't put in as much time on her schoolwork as Baz. But, still.)</p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (10:08 p.m): </b>How was movie night? </p><p> </p><p>My hands freeze over the buttons for a moment. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (10:10 p.m.): </b>how did u know its movie nite</p><p> </p><p>I bite my fingernails as I stare at the screen for his reply. </p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (10:15 p.m): </b>Context clues. </p><p><b>Me (10:15 p.m.): </b>???</p><p><b>Baz (10:15 p.m): </b>You said the home shows a movie once a week the other day. You never go more than ten minutes without replying, and you just went an hour and fifty minutes, which is the average length of a movie. </p><p><b>Baz (10:15 p.m): </b>Doesn't take a genius. </p><p><b>Baz (10:16 p.m): </b>Though, it doesn't hurt that I am one. </p><p> </p><p>I huff out a laugh; I'm reluctantly amused by his wit. My chest twists a little at the fact that Baz has been paying so much attention to me. Though, I guess I shouldn't be so surprised. We've always been very much in one another's business (though, admittedly, me more than him.) </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (10:16 p.m.): </b>movie nite was good. we watched frozen 2</p><p><b>Baz (10:17 p.m): </b>Merlin and Morgana. </p><p><b>Me (10:17 p.m.): </b>what</p><p><b>Baz (10:17 p.m): </b>My condolences. </p><p><b>Me (10:18 p.m.): </b>why</p><p><b>Baz (10:18 p.m): </b>My sisters love those movies. And I promise you, Snow, those songs will never leave your head. </p><p><b>Baz (10:18 p.m): </b>You'll be singing "Into The Unknown" in the shower for months. </p><p><b>Me (10:19 p.m.): </b>u didnt</p><p><b>Baz (10:19 p.m): </b>Yeah I did. </p><p><b>Me (10:20 p.m.): </b>we share a bathroom. id know if you did </p><p><b>Baz (10:20 p.m): </b>I cast a sound-proofing spell so you couldn't hear me. </p><p><b>Me (10:20 p.m.): </b>ahahahhaahaha</p><p><b>Baz (10:21 p.m): </b>Laugh it up, Snow. Shit's catchy. </p><p><b>Baz (10:21 p.m): </b>I'm surprised the home showed it, though. </p><p><b>Me (10:22 p.m.): </b>why </p><p><b>Baz (10:22 p.m):</b> Aren't you staying in a rigidly Catholic children's home? </p><p><b>Me (10:22 p.m.): </b>yeah so </p><p><b>Baz (10:22 p.m):</b> So, Elsa's a lesbian. </p><p><b>Me (10:23 p.m.): </b>?????</p><p><b>Me (10:23 p.m.): </b>when does anyone say that </p><p><b>Baz (10:24 p.m):</b> They don't need to say it. It's obvious. </p><p><b>Me (10:24 p.m.): </b>how is it obvious</p><p><b>Baz (10:24 p.m): </b>Honeymaren, for one. </p><p><b>Baz (10:25 p.m): </b>Also, it's just her vibe. She's got big gay energy. </p><p><b>Me (10:25 p.m.): </b>what is gay energy</p><p><b>Baz (10:26 p.m): </b>Superior. </p><p> </p><p>I stare at the Blackberry screen for a while, until the simple question I want to ask finally comes to me. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (10:30 p.m.): </b>are you gay???</p><p> </p><p>I regret the message as soon as I send it. The three question marks were definitely too much. But you can't unsend text messages, so I just stare anxiously at my phone. My fingernails have been all but bitten down to nubs when my phone lights up with "[1 new message]". </p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (10:39 p.m): </b>Yes. </p><p><b>Me (10:39 p.m.): </b>ok</p><p><b>Me (10:40 p.m.): </b>i dont mean ok </p><p><b>Me (10:40 p.m.): </b>i mean</p><p><b>Me (10:40 p.m.): </b>cool </p><p> </p><p>"Cool" is not much better than "ok." But what else are you supposed to say when your nemesis slash texting buddy comes out to you? </p><p> </p><p>I'm about to keep putting my foot in it when his messages come in. </p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (10:41 p.m): </b>It's not a secret. </p><p><b>Baz (10:41 p.m): </b>I mean my friends and family all know. I came out to them all back in fifth year. </p><p><b>Baz (10:41 p.m): </b>I just thought it was no one else's business. </p><p><b>Baz (10:42 p.m): </b>I just didn't feel the need to hang up a pride flag in our bedroom. </p><p><b>Baz (10:42 p.m): </b>But I'm not ashamed. </p><p> </p><p>I think this is the closest Baz comes to rambling. </p><p> </p><p>I want to ask whether this—him deciding to tell me he's gay—means that we're kind of friends. But he'll probably just say something shitty. Plus, this isn't really about me. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (10:42 p.m.):</b> thanks for telling me</p><p><b>Baz (10:43 p.m): </b>No need to get soppy on me, Snow. </p><p><b>Me (10:43 p.m.):</b> of course not </p><p><b>Me (10:43 p.m.):</b> i still think ur an arsehole </p><p><b>Baz (10:43 p.m): </b>And I still think you're an idiot. </p><p> </p><p>The insult makes me smile for some reason. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><b>Simon (10:04 p.m.): </b>i dont think goblins are that bad. just misunderstood</p><p><b>Baz (10:04 p.m.): </b>That is the dumbest thing you've ever said to me. And you've said so many dumb things. </p><p><b>Baz (10:05 p.m.): </b>You are aware they are trying to kill you, no? </p><p><b>Simon (10:05 p.m.): </b>we just have a lot of cultural differences</p><p><b>Baz (10:05 p.m.): </b>You can't even manage to hate creatures that are literally trying to murder you. Crowley. </p><p><b>Simon (10:05 p.m.): </b>i hate you just fine</p><p><b>Baz (10:06 p.m.): </b>Ha ha. Very funny. </p><p><b>Simon (10:06 p.m.): </b>I think so :D</p><p><b>Baz (10:06 p.m.): </b>I sincerely wish there was a font for sarcasm. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Snow (8:38 p.m.):</b> u cant put metal bowls in the microwave????v</p><p><b>Me (8:39 p.m.): </b>Is that a real question? Of course you can’t.</p><p><b>Snow (8:40 p.m.): </b>hypothetically</p><p><b>Snow (8:40 p.m.): </b>if someone did that</p><p><b>Snow (8:40 p.m.): </b>what would they do to fix it</p><p><b>Me (8:41 p.m.): </b>What would one do to fix the problem of an exploding microwave? </p><p><b>Snow (8:41 p.m.): </b>ya</p><p><b>Me (8:41 p.m.): </b>Go back in time, and tell the bloke daft enough to put metal in a microwave that he’s an idiot.</p><p><b>Snow (8:42 p.m.): </b>!!!!!!!!!!</p><p><b>Snow (8:42 p.m.): </b>BAZ</p><p> </p><p>I huff out a laugh. Only Snow.</p><p> </p><p><b>Me (8:42 p.m.): </b>A “We Didn’t Start The Fire” spell, sung in Billy Joel’s vocal cadence, should suffice.</p><p><b>Me (8:43 p.m.): </b>Hypothetically. </p><p><b>Snow (8:43 p.m.): </b>what if it was someone couldnt use magic rn</p><p><b>Me (8:43 p.m.):</b> Run, and pretend it wasn't you. </p><p><b>Snow (8:43 p.m.): </b>good plan</p><p><b>Snow (8:44 p.m.): </b>tho this is fake</p><p><b>Snow (8:44 p.m.): </b>it wasnt me</p><p><b>Me (8:44 p.m.):</b> Sure it wasn't, Snow. </p><p><b>Me (8:44 p.m.):</b> You're such a disaster. </p><p><b>Snow (8:45 p.m.): </b>yeah i really am </p><p> </p><p>That gives me pause. He usually fights back when I insult him—we banter back and forth until he eventually tells me to go fuck myself. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (8:46 p.m.):</b> Are you okay? </p><p> </p><p>He's been acting off for a couple days now. Not himself. I know him well enough to tell that something's wrong—even through text. (Maybe especially through text.)</p><p> </p><p>My foot's tapping in anticipation as I wait for his reply (I tried crossing my legs to stop the anxious movement, to no avail). But he doesn't send another message. Instead, my phone lights up with an incoming call from Snow. </p><p> </p><p>I'm too shocked to respond for the first two rings, but I 'slide to answer' on the third. </p><p> </p><p>"Basilton speaking." My voice sounds surprisingly normal, considering my fluttering heart is stuck in my throat.</p><p> </p><p>"Is that how you answer the phone? Really?" His voice—rough and deep—is like a cool drink of water after a long, hot summer. I want to drown in it. </p><p> </p><p>"Yes," I say, though the true answer is no. (I may have panicked, just a bit.) </p><p> </p><p>"Wow." There's a teasing edge to his voice, and I'm pretending that isn't giving me gooseflesh. "Every time I think you can't get any more ridiculously posh, you go and say something like that." </p><p> </p><p>I scowl, and he laughs like he can tell. "There's nothing wrong with politely answering the phone." </p><p> </p><p>"There is if you're greeting people like a bloody barrister!" </p><p> </p><p>"Enlighten me then, Snow. How do <em> you </em> answer the phone?" </p><p> </p><p>"Er…" I can hear the awkwardness in his voice. I imagine him biting his nails the way he does when he's nervous. "I'm not sure. This is my first phone call, I suppose." </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't sound quite like himself—he's usually so headstrong, so righteous. Even back when we were kids, and I'd catch him crying in our room, he'd steel up to fight me back. But now, his voice is worn at the edges: tired and strained and a little sad. </p><p> </p><p>"Don't the selkies ever call? They were so infatuated with you when you freed them back in fourth year," I try to joke.</p><p> </p><p>"Nope. No one ever bothers to check up on me," he responds in a flat voice.</p><p> </p><p>"Don't the goblins?" I push on, keeping a joking tone. </p><p> </p><p>"Well, yes. People do come back if they want to murder me." His tone is all wrong. There's no levity, no humor. Just dark bitterness. It's horribly un-Simon-like.</p><p> </p><p>"Snow," I say, forcing my voice to sound kinder than usual. "What's wrong?"</p><p> </p><p>"I'm fine." </p><p> </p><p>"You are a bad liar. No one who says they're '<em>fine' </em> is ever really fine."</p><p> </p><p>There's a pause on the other side. I close my eyes and picture his face. It doesn't take long for my mind to conjure the image; I'm always thinking of him. Golden skin, kissed by an assortment of pretty moles. His strong square jaw that I dream of running my thumb across. Cerulean blue eyes I could get lost in if I let myself. In my daydreams, he's always smiling. But right now, I know he's frowning—with that little wrinkle between his eyebrows and a hunch to his shoulders. Handsome as always, I'm sure, but sad. That thought turns my stomach. </p><p> </p><p>"It's just… This summer has been harder, you know?" I don't know, but I hum my agreement so he'll continue. "After everything that happened last year…" </p><p> </p><p>Well, guess we're diving right into the heart of it, then. </p><p> </p><p>A chill runs down my spine at the memory. If my own fear was primal and intense that day, what was it like for him? </p><p> </p><p>"Snow," I say cautiously. Whatever has been happening between us—this texting truce we've created this summer—feels so delicate. I don't want to overstep, or say the wrong thing, or push him away. But I have to say something. "What happened with the Humdrum?" </p><p> </p><p>The line goes quiet. So quiet I'm afraid for a moment he's hung up. But when I check my phone, the call screen is still on. I wait silently for his reply. </p><p> </p><p>"It's just," he finally says, and I quietly let out the breath I was holding. "This time was different." </p><p> </p><p><em> I know, </em> I want to say. <em> I felt it too. This time it felt real.  </em></p><p> </p><p>"He can summon me with his magic," he continues, nervously babbling. "He shouldn't be able to do that. No one should be able to do that. Teleportation magic is supposed to be impossible, but… he can do it. To me. And… I saw him. I really saw him. And when I did…" His voice is tense, like when I tighten my violin bow string too tightly. The sound twists at my guts. </p><p> </p><p>"What happened when you saw him?" I encourage him to continue. I can tell we're on the edge of it—the thing that made this time different. </p><p> </p><p>He hesitates. "You… you won't tell anyone?" </p><p> </p><p>"No." </p><p> </p><p>"You promise?"</p><p> </p><p>"I swear it," I say, and I mean it. </p><p> </p><p>A quiet pause settles over us. I’ve given him very few reasons to trust me over the years, but I want him to. I want him to know I’d never hurt him—not really. I wish I could find the words to bridge this gap we've created. To close it for good. </p><p> </p><p>He breaks the silence before I can figure out what to say. "He has my face," he blurts out in a rush of words. </p><p> </p><p>"Pardon?"</p><p> </p><p>"The Humdrum. Somehow he was able to make himself look like me. But, like, eleven year old me." </p><p> </p><p>I'm glad Snow isn't standing in front of me, because I involuntarily shudder in horror.  </p><p> </p><p>I think of eleven year old Simon Snow with his ratty jeans and long curly hair and shifty eyes. The first time I saw him was like a jolt of electricity to the spine. At the time, I called it recognition of the enemy. I called it disgust, revulsion, contempt. I called it a million things it wasn't before admitting it was love. </p><p> </p><p>Now I know the enemy—the real enemy—has the face of the boy I love. </p><p> </p><p>I try to ease the tension with a laugh. "Was he carrying that stupid red ball you used to lug around?" </p><p> </p><p>My joke falls flat when he answers, earnestly, "Yes." </p><p> </p><p>Discomfort itches my throat. I don't know what to say to make this better. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be soft for him—for anyone, really. Neither Pitches nor Grimms are made for this—for comfort and vulnerability and tenderness. </p><p> </p><p>But I've got to try. Right?</p><p> </p><p>"It'll be alright," is what comes out of my mouth, a breathless reassurance. </p><p> </p><p>What a stupid, meaningless thing to say. He's justified in responding, "How?" </p><p> </p><p>"Because you're Simon Snow. You're made for this—you're here to defeat the Humdrum." </p><p> </p><p><em> You're here to brighten every room you walk into, and to steal my heart, and be the bravest motherfucker the world has seen, </em>I think (though I'd never dare to say any of it aloud). </p><p> </p><p>"What if that's all bollocks?" He asks with a bitter laugh.</p><p> </p><p>"It's not," I tell him with conviction. I add, before I can stop myself, "<em>You're </em> not." </p><p> </p><p>My heart's choking my throat, so I can't say anything more. I'm <em> glad </em> I can't; it's the closest I've come to telling him how I really feel about him. This whole conversation feels like walking on a tightrope, and I'm afraid for him to see me fall. (Though, I've already fallen—and <em> hard— </em>a long time ago.) </p><p> </p><p>"Okay," he says, so quietly I'm not sure I'd catch it if I wasn't a vampire. He coughs awkwardly, and then says, in an almost normal voice, "So… I have a confession to make." </p><p> </p><p>"Another one?" I ask, raising a single eyebrow, though he can't see me. </p><p> </p><p>He admits, with the air of someone giving up a grave secret, "I was the one who put the metal bowl in the microwave." </p><p> </p><p>I can't help but snort out a laugh at that, the tension in my chest dissolving. "You don't say, Snow." </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><b>Simon (8:31 p.m.): </b>do u use snapchat</p><p><b>Baz (8:31 p.m.): </b>How do you even know what Snapchat is? </p><p><b>Simon (8:31 p.m.): </b>just because i didnt have a phone doesnt mean i was living under a rock</p><p><b>Baz (8:32 p.m.): </b>Debatable.</p><p><b>Simon (8:32 p.m.): </b>we literally live in the same room</p><p><b>Baz (8:33 p.m.): </b>But, no. I don't have Snapchat, because Snapchat saves all of our photos to sell to the government so that they can compile a facial recognition software and track our every move.</p><p><b>Simon (8:33 p.m.): </b>im sorry what now</p><p><b>Baz (8:34 p.m.): </b>It's a scam, Snow. </p><p><b>Baz (8:34 p.m.): </b>The world's going to look like George Orwell's 1984 soon enough because of apps like that.  </p><p><b>Simon (8:35 p.m.): </b>crowley ur paranoid</p><p><b>Baz (8:35 p.m.): </b>I'm sensible.</p><p><b>Simon (8:36 p.m.): </b>thats an interesting way to spell paranoid</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The mid-August London weather is miserable. Today was both suffocatingly warm and rainy: my least favorite weather, since I'm already naturally overheated and I don't own an umbrella. I've been whining to Baz about it all day, but he's been less than helpful. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (2:13 p.m.): </b>a hellhound has been set loose in london</p><p><b>Me (2:13 p.m.): </b>a hellhound that is crying hot tears of hell</p><p><b>Me (2:13 p.m.): </b>its so fucking gross</p><p><b>Baz (2:14 p.m.): </b>You're the Chosen One, and you're afraid of a little sun and water?</p><p><b>Me (2:14 p.m.): </b>i will murder you with my own two hands </p><p><b>Baz (2:14 p.m.): </b>Good luck with that, considering you're going to be defeated by the totally unpredictable circumstance of rain in London.</p><p> </p><p>Fucking git. </p><p> </p><p>Now I'm back in my bedroom at the home, and horribly bored. I wish we were allowed to use the telly after ten. I text Baz to distract myself from the stifling heat of the room (the other boys won't let me keep the window open, even when it's only just drizzling).</p><p> </p><p><b>Me (11:08 p.m.): </b>send memes</p><p><b>Baz (11:10 p.m.): </b>Pardon me?</p><p><b>Me (11:11 p.m.): </b>u heard me</p><p><b>Me (11:11 p.m.): </b>memes. those funny internet pictures</p><p><b>Baz (11:11 p.m.): </b>I’m aware of memes. I’m just not sure why you’re asking for them.</p><p><b>Me (11:12 p.m.): </b>i'm booooored</p><p><b>Me (11:12 p.m.):</b> Penny showed me the evil kermit ones and I like them </p><p><b>Me (11:12 p.m.): </b>cmon</p><p><b>Me (11:12 p.m.): </b>please </p><p><b>Baz (11:12 p.m.): </b>Fine.</p><p><b>Me (11:13 p.m.): </b>:D</p><p><b>Baz (11:14 p.m.): </b>[image]</p><p>
  <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/187986359@N08/49766226008/in/datetaken/">  </a>
</p><p><b>Me (11:14 p.m.): </b>what</p><p><b>Baz (11:14 p.m.): </b>[image]</p><p>
  <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/187986359@N08/49766227478/in/datetaken/">  </a>
</p><p><b>Me (11:15 p.m.): </b>these are memes??</p><p><b>Me (11:15 p.m.): </b>if they are i change my mind </p><p><b>Me (11:15 p.m.): </b>i don't want them anymore</p><p><b>Baz (11:16 p.m.): </b>[image]</p><p>
  <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/187986359@N08/49766226398/in/datetaken/">  </a>
</p><p><b>Me (11:16 p.m.): </b>is this how you flirt? if it is ur awful at it </p><p> </p><p>I send the message before I can think any better of it. All the blood in my body rushes to my face. </p><p> </p><p>Why would I say <em> that? </em></p><p> </p><p>I mean… it's just banter between mates, right? It doesn't have to be different just because Baz's gay. Or because we're less mates and more… mortal enemies who've started a tentative friendship over texting (and shared one weird, emotionally-charged phone call). </p><p> </p><p>So why do I feel so nauseous right now? </p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (11:20 p.m.): </b>I can assure you if I were flirting with you, you'd know it. </p><p> </p><p>I wonder (not for the first time, I realise) who Baz's type is. Probably someone as pretty and posh as he is. His friend Niall isn't nearly as attractive as Baz is (and he <em> spells </em> his eyes blue, which is bloody laughable), but they're both the same old money, pompous sort of blokes. Is <em> Niall </em>Baz's type? </p><p> </p><p>I start to type <em> 'do you fancy Niall?'  </em>before fully realising how fucking ridiculous that would sound.  </p><p> </p><p>I hover my fingers over the keyboard waiting for a better response to come to mind. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (11:26 p.m.): </b>i guess you dont tend to try to feed blokes you fancy to a chimaera </p><p> </p><p>That… was not better. That was arguably <em> much worse.  </em></p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (11:28 p.m.): </b>That would be a pretty self-destructive way to handle feelings. </p><p> </p><p>I laugh, but the noise sounds bitter in my ears. Before I can think of a response, I get another text from him. </p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (11:28 p.m.): </b>I'm heading to bed. Goodnight, Snow. </p><p> </p><p>I swallow down the lump of disappointment in my throat, and text back a goodnight. I lay down on my bunk bed and stare at the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>This is stupid. This weird… rejected feeling. It's not like I <em> wanted </em> Baz to be flirting with me. I've just… never seen him give much attention to anyone else. Not unless you count Agatha, but given recent developments, I certainly wouldn't consider Agatha to be someone Baz would be interested in.</p><p> </p><p>Crowley. <em>Agatha. </em>My girlfriend.</p><p> </p><p>I haven't thought of her much lately. I mean, I did at the beginning of summer. Back when I was worried about Baz and Agatha holding hands in the woods. But slowly, I just… stopped worrying about that. About her. I guess I never really think about her much over the summer. I don't ever see her or talk to her, so there's not much to think about. </p><p> </p><p>I guess I'm just feeling weird because Baz and I are kind of friends now. I felt kind of uncomfortable back in fourth year, when Penny and Micah started dating. Sort of left out. This must be something like that. </p><p> </p><p><em> (This is nothing like that, </em>a small voice in the back of my head chimes in, but I ignore it.) </p><p> </p><p>I fall asleep after an hour or two; my eyes glazing over, making the ceiling go blurry, and then eventually shutting. I dream of Baz—his infernal smirk and slicked back hair and sharp tongue invading my subconscious—but by the morning light, I've forgotten all about the specifics. All I've got left when I wake up is a restless want in my chest and no idea how or when it got there.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><b>Simon (2:24 a.m.): </b>how do mermaids pee</p><p><b>Baz (2:25 a.m.): </b>It is 2 in the fucking morning </p><p><b>Simon (2:25 a.m.): </b>cuz they just have that tail but like. where are their private parts</p><p><b>Baz (2:26 a.m.): </b>TWO A.M. SNOW </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p> </p><p>I'm in the kitchen filling my Hydro Flask with lemon water when my phone buzzes. </p><p> </p><p><b>Snow (12:15 p.m.): </b>two more weeks until school</p><p><b>Snow (12:15 p.m.):</b> thank fucking merlin</p><p><b>Me (12:15 p.m.): </b>I wasn't aware that you were such a dedicated student, Snow. Your performance certainly doesn't reflect it. </p><p><b>Snow (12:16 p.m.):</b> fuck off </p><p><b>Snow (12:16 p.m.):</b> aren't u excited to get back to tormenting me</p><p> </p><p>"Basil? Basil!" I look up to see Daphne's been trying to speak to me, judging by her expectant expression. </p><p> </p><p>"Yes, mother?" </p><p> </p><p>She smiles, amused. "I asked who you were texting, dear." </p><p> </p><p>"Oh," I say. "No one." </p><p> </p><p>Mordelia snorts. "He's been texting 'no one' all summer long." </p><p> </p><p>Daphne gives me a knowing look. "Have you now?" </p><p> </p><p>"No," I respond, too quickly and too guiltily. </p><p> </p><p>"Hmm," Daphne says, pursing her lips like she's keeping from laughing. "Would you like to have No One over for dinner?" </p><p> </p><p>"No One's busy." </p><p> </p><p>"Well, let me know if his schedule clears up," she retorts, her smile lighting up her whole face.  </p><p> </p><p>I'm glad I can't often blush, because my stepmother unknowingly teasing me about my crush on Simon Snow would certainly do it. I duck out of the kitchen with my head held high to preserve the rest of my dignity, and then text Snow back as soon as I'm out of Daphne's eyesight. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (12:19 p.m.): </b>Certainly. </p><p> </p><p>I wonder if things will be different when we get back to Watford. Now that we're whatever we are. Will we be amicable? Will we be more than amicable—friendly perhaps? Or even…</p><p> </p><p>I don't dare to think it—to hope for more than friendly. </p><p> </p><p><em> He's straight, he's straight, he's straight, </em> I tell myself over and over. I know this—have always known it—but it's a little harder to remember, having all the memories of a summer of teasing and pseudo-friendship to reminisce on. <em> He's straight, and he has a girlfriend, even if he has been kind of, almost flirting with me.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I push it out of my mind. It's absolutely pointless to dwell on. This can't be flirting; it must just be how Simon acts with his mates. </p><p> </p><p><b>Snow (12:20 p.m.):</b> im excited too</p><p> </p><p>Butterflies riot inside my stomach, and I imagine murdering them all with a machete. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (12:20 p.m.): </b>I've got to go. I'm driving to meet Dev at the club to play tennis now. </p><p><b>Snow (12:21 p.m.):</b> ugh, another posh thing</p><p><b>Snow (12:21 p.m.):</b> ur so predictable</p><p><b>Me (12:22 p.m.): </b>How is playing tennis posh? Any commoner could do it. </p><p><b>Snow (12:22 p.m.):</b> weve talked about this baz</p><p><b>Snow (12:22 p.m.):</b> saying commoner makes you seem like a right prat </p><p> </p><p>I smile; that's why I said it. So he'd call me a prat. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (12:22 p.m.): </b>Haven't you been saying I'm a prat for years? </p><p><b>Snow (12:23 p.m.):</b> ur alright pitch</p><p><b>Snow (12:23 p.m.):</b> sometimes</p><p> </p><p>The butterflies in my stomach fly to my chest. If I thought a vampire could have a heart attack, I'd be worried. I send one last message before jumping into the Jaguar.</p><p> </p><p><b>Me (12:23 p.m.): </b>You're not so bad yourself, Snow. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><b>Simon (3:48 p.m.): </b>how was tennis</p><p><b>Simon (4:14 p.m.): </b>are you still playing? </p><p><b>Simon (5:36 p.m.): </b>did you stay for dinner? aggie does that sometimes</p><p><b>Simon (6:12 p.m.): </b>i bet you know all those stupid fork rules. like which one goes with what. i can never remember</p><p><b>Simon (8:24 p.m.): </b>you cant still be at the Club</p><p><b>Simon (10:58 p.m.): </b>baz?</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! Sorry to hit you with that ending, but the next chapter will be up soon. If you have a minute, let me know what you thought :) </p><p>Come find me on <a href="https://annabellelux.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Welcome To The Black Parade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><em>We’ll carry on, we’ll carry on<br/>And though you’re dead and gone, believe me<br/>Your memory will carry on, we’ll carry on<br/>And in my heart I can’t contain it<br/>The anthem won’t explain it</em><br/>Welcome to the Black Parade, My Chemical Romance</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I was going to post this on Wednesday and then everyone was so nice and lovely to me that I felt bad for the cliffhanger so I'm back a little early with a new chapter</p><p>Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu">@giishu</a> for beta-ing! </p><p>Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedfetish/pseuds/thedaggerrose">@thedaggerrose</a> for inspiring this fic (and for loving angst as much as I do)💖 </p><p>Hope you all like this chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p> </p><p>"So, Miss Possibelf approved my plan to stop time for my eighth year project. She says, with my thesis, that it's theoretically possible."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah," I reply without looking up. </p><p> </p><p>"I mean, she said it would definitely be difficult, and contingent on me being stupidly in love, but that shouldn't be a problem. Micah will totally love it. Better yet, he'll finally have to admit I'm the better magician. I'm excited to win that argument, once and for all." </p><p> </p><p>"Mmhmm." </p><p> </p><p>I'm picking at my scone instead of eating it. I don't think they're as good this year; they're not bringing me as much joy they used to.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing is, really. </p><p> </p><p>"I'm sleeping with Trixie. It's been pretty fun. I mean, I get pixie dust everywhere. And I mean <em> everywhere. </em> But she does this expert thing with her tongue, so it's totally worth it." </p><p> </p><p>"Cool." The scone on my plate is completely obliterated, but I still keep playing with it. </p><p> </p><p><em> "Simon," </em> Penny says sharply, and I look up. </p><p> </p><p>"Huh?" </p><p> </p><p>"You're not paying attention to me." </p><p> </p><p>"Sure, I am," I lie. </p><p> </p><p>"I just said I've been shagging Trixie, and you didn't bat an eye." </p><p> </p><p>I nearly jump in alarm. "You're shagging <em> Trixie?"  </em></p><p> </p><p>"No!" she exclaims, exasperated. "I was just testing you to see if you were listening! Which you clearly weren't!" </p><p> </p><p>"Oh," I say sheepishly. "Sorry. I was distracted." </p><p> </p><p>She bites her lip and seems to consider her words for a moment, before saying slowly, "You're thinking about Baz again." </p><p> </p><p>"No, I wasn't." Another lie. I'm always thinking about Baz. Especially these days—especially since he disappeared. </p><p> </p><p>"It's<em> fine, </em> Si," she repeats for what feels like the millionth time. "He's not plotting against you. He probably spent all summer in Bora Bora and just didn't feel like coming for eight year. It's optional, after all." </p><p> </p><p>He didn't just skip for eighth year for no reason. That's not Baz—he doesn't do anything by accident. (Plus, he would <em> hate </em>Bora Bora. He gets tetchy when it's hot outside.)</p><p> </p><p>He's not here for a reason. </p><p> </p><p>At first, when he didn't text me back, I thought he was just ignoring me or something. I mean, it had never happened before; all summer, he never went more than four hours without replying unless he was sleeping. (Even then, my texts would usually wake him and he'd reply within ten minutes that I was an inconsiderate wanker and that I should let him get his beauty rest.) (I would tell him that the sleep wasn't helping his appearance much—a lie, but it's always fun to rile him up.) </p><p> </p><p>But as more time went by, I realised that it was something else entirely. His phone went to voicemail every time I called. I was about ready to go off when I got to Watford, after two weeks of radio silence. I was itching for a fight by then—irritable and prickly and ready to snap someone's fucking neck. I was half happy that goblin attacked me on the cab ride here. It gave me something to take my anger out on until I got to Baz.</p><p> </p><p>Then that fucker didn't show. Not to the Welcome Feast, not to classes on the first day. </p><p> </p><p>It's been eight weeks since I've spoken to him. Eight weeks since that <em>'You're not so bad yourself, Snow' </em>text. </p><p> </p><p>I decided I was going to prove him wrong on that point when I re-break his nose. </p><p> </p><p>That's still my plan. </p><p> </p><p>"He's obviously doing something awful, Pen. <em> He's </em> awful. More than awful—he's evil. He's probably plotting how to off me and the Mage as we speak." Guilt and anger mix uncomfortably in my stomach. It's not what I would've said about him this past summer, but  now, after two months of silence… I don't know what to think.</p><p> </p><p>"Honestly, I doubt he's off planning an assassination," she replies with a sigh. "He's more likely sick or hurt or dead."  </p><p> </p><p>My stomach drops through the floor. <em> "What?"  </em></p><p> </p><p>Penny doesn't notice the way my voice cracks. She goes on like we're talking about the weather, and not Baz's life. "I overheard Dev and Niall talking the other day. They haven't seen or heard from him since Dev played tennis with him at the Club back in August." </p><p> </p><p>I asked Dev and Niall a hundred times where Baz was, but they just told me to fuck off. I assumed they knew what he was doing, but they didn't want to tell me.</p><p> </p><p>I consider the possibility that Baz is dead, and my brain pulls back from that idea like it's Hydra poison. Baz can't be dead—he just can't be. </p><p> </p><p>I've faced dragons and goblins and chimaeras and the bloody Humdrum. But I couldn't face a world that didn't have Baz Pitch in it. I couldn't survive it. </p><p> </p><p>As soon as I have that thought, the Dining Hall doors slam open. </p><p> </p><p>Standing there, with sharp cheekbones and a cruel smirk, is Baz. </p><p> </p><p>I stand up before I realise what I'm doing, knocking my hot tea cup down the front of my trousers in my rush.</p><p> </p><p>"Motherfucker!" I curse. Tears spring to my eyes as the liquid burns my lap. Penny jumps up too, and casts a <b>Cool Down </b>on my burns. I feel the pain evaporate—the physical pain, anyways. </p><p> </p><p>Baz won't look at me. </p><p> </p><p>Penny's coughing, so I know everyone can feel my magic coming off me in waves. <em> He </em>can feel it. But his eyes stay trained on his table with Dev and Niall. He takes his usual seat—casually, like he hasn't been missing for half a semester—without sparing me a glance. </p><p> </p><p>Penny states the obvious. "So. It looks like Baz is back." </p><p> </p><p>I shove bits of sour cherry scone in my mouth instead of answering. </p><p> </p><p>He's <em> still </em> ignoring me. He's got his back to me now, but his head's turned just slightly to his left, so I can see his lip curl. </p><p> </p><p>I want to storm over to his table and make good on all the violent promises I've made to myself, do every single awful thing I've wanted to do to Baz since he disappeared. I want to pull him down to eye level by his tie and yell and scream until he tells me what he's been doing. I want to shove him to his knees and make him beg for forgiveness. I want—</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't matter what I want. </p><p> </p><p>I need to stop thinking. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The whole not thinking thing didn't work out as well as I hoped it would. </p><p> </p><p>My magic choked my classmates, creating an intoxicating, smoky haze. Agatha once said the effect is like champagne on an empty stomach: bubbly and nauseating. (She gave me several dirty looks in Magick Words, and I'm sure she was thinking about how glad she is that she dumped me.) Even the professors can't handle it—I'm sent out of every class, leaving every one of my teachers looking lightheaded. </p><p> </p><p>The only person who doesn't get affected by my magic is Baz. I'm not sure if it's because he's built a tolerance (unlikely, since Penny hasn't) or because he's a vampire. Or maybe it's just because the degree to which he doesn't care about me is so great not even my overpowering magic can touch him. </p><p> </p><p>He didn't look at me once all day, and it makes me want to tear my skin off. Being sent back to my room for being a disruption threw me into a worse mood than I started the day off in. Dinner was just as infuriating, since he didn't show. </p><p> </p><p>It didn't help that I came back to the room and decided to reread some of our text messages. It's a bad habit I've gotten into—mainly late at night when I can't sleep. I feel the sting of my mistake when, after scrolling up past all my unanswered messages, I find a certain random conversation we had a couple days before he stopped replying. </p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Me (12:07 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> Ur lying </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (12:07 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> *You're </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (12:08 p.m.):  </em> </b> <em> I am absolutely not. I was only thirteen. Setting the chimaera on you was supposed to be a prank. </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (12:08 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> I just wanted to see the Chosen One piss his pants.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (12:08 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> yeah coz its totally normal to set one of the deadliest magical creatures on a bloke for lolz </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (12:09 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> You know, your sarcasm has really improved. I'm almost proud.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (12:09 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> Fuck off and die </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (12:09 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> You can't get rid of me that easily, Snow.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (12:09 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> I'll be haunting you from beyond the grave, reminding you to pick up your towels from the bathroom floor and close the fucking window.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Now, I'm feeling absolutely lethal. </p><p> </p><p>I'm practicing my swordwork by his bed when he walks into our room. </p><p> </p><p>He sneers at me and my heart skips a beat. <em> Finally, a reaction, </em> I think as I swipe the Sword of Mages in a circle over my head—not close enough to hit Baz, but close enough to startle him. </p><p> </p><p>"Crowley, Snow!" he yelps and jumps back. "I've told you a million times not to swing that thing around in here." </p><p> </p><p>"Oops, sorry," I retort insincerely, changing my foot placement so that I'm striking to my left, away from him. My movement still makes him flinch, though it's so slight, I'm not sure anyone other than me would notice. "I didn't think you'd care what I did, since you weren't here." </p><p> </p><p>His eyes darken. "Well, let it be known from now on that I care if you're destroying our bedroom, whether or not I'm here. Quit it." </p><p> </p><p>"I don't think I want to." I grip the hilt of the sword tightly and sidecut, narrowly missing his bed. He makes a subdued noise of discontent—like he's choking on his nerves, but he doesn't want me to know it. It gives me a vindictive rush of pleasure, and I smile at him so he knows I know I'm getting to him. </p><p> </p><p>"You're going to trigger the Anathema if you keep on like that," he scoffs derisively, his voice purposely casual. </p><p> </p><p>"Not if I don't hit you I won't," I say, but I swing the sword closer to him as I do. This time, he rises to the challenge. He doesn't take a step back or wince; he widens the stance of his feet like someone's cast a <b>Stand Your Ground </b>on him. </p><p> </p><p>"Snow," he warns in a low, threatening voice. "You better stop that." </p><p> </p><p>"Make me," I dare him. I pivot so I'm fully facing him again and go to slash the sword above and across me, just over Baz's head. </p><p> </p><p>But he's fast—too fast—and grabs my wrist in a tight grip. I yelp, and when he twists my arm, the sword falls to the ground with a clattering noise. </p><p> </p><p>"Hey!" I protest as I rip my arm out of his grasp. <em> "That </em> should have broken the Anathema!" I rub at my wrist bitterly; he's so bloody strong. Fucking vampire. </p><p> </p><p>"No," he argues. "The Anathema allows one to defend themself against homicidal roommates. It's understanding like that." </p><p> </p><p>"I'm not <em> homicidal."  </em></p><p> </p><p>"Really? Your track record would beg to differ."</p><p> </p><p>The insult is so simple. It's got the typical <em> 'Snow, you're just the Mage's loyal little soldier' </em>attitude that I'm all too used to after seven years of Baz. </p><p> </p><p>But I thought it would be different after this summer—after I opened up to him. I had started to think that, maybe, the Crucible hadn't made such a terrible mistake after all. </p><p> </p><p>The <em> 'fuck you' </em>is on the tip of my tongue. But if I say that, he'll know I've lost the argument, that I couldn't think of anything better to say. So I change the subject. </p><p> </p><p>I stand tall, bringing myself to my fullest height (even if that is still only a full three inches shorter than Baz). "Where were you?" I demand. </p><p> </p><p>His expression doesn't change, but he clenches his fists. "That is none of your business." </p><p> </p><p>"Fuck that," I snarl. I resist the urge to pick my sword back up. (Not to hurt him—just because I feel better with it in my hands. Stronger; more powerful.) "Tell me." </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't bother answering; instead he just stomps over to his wardrobe and magickally unlocks it. He roughly rips a jumper on over his head—a deep green one that brings out the uniqueness of his eyes—and turns for the exit. </p><p> </p><p>I grab him by the wrist. <em> I just got him back and he won't stop leaving me</em>, I think—an irrational and outrageous thought. </p><p> </p><p>"You—but I—can't you just—where—I didn't—" I can't make words. I can't make him understand: I don't <em> want </em> to know where he was. I <em> need </em>to know. </p><p> </p><p>"Eloquent as always, Snow," he sneers and rips his hand away. </p><p> </p><p>"You're such an arsehole! Why can't you ever manage to be a decent fucking human being?" </p><p> </p><p>My voice fills up the room with ringing sharpness, hard and bitter in my ears. Baz sneers, and the look in his eyes is condemning, like my very existence is taxing to him. </p><p> </p><p>"Don't talk to me anymore. I'm so fucking sick of you." </p><p> </p><p>I feel as though he's slapped me; this entire conversation has hurt like a physical fight, the blows to my chest unrelenting. </p><p> </p><p>The sound of the door slamming shut echoes in my chest. And then everything is silent, and I'm left with nothing but my thoughts. </p><p> </p><p>This isn't the Baz I thought I knew. </p><p> </p><p>Well—it's exactly the Baz I thought I knew. But that was<em> before. </em> Before we spent the whole summer texting. Before he started being almost nice, before he told me he was gay. Before I showed him the real me, the one I'm afraid everyone will see behind my attempts to be a good enough mage, to be the kind of mage people think could really defeat the Humdrum. Before I told him how scared I was, before I told him that the Humdrum has my face. </p><p> </p><p>Hell and horrors. I told him so much more than I should have in my desperation not to be lonely. I opened up to him, but he's just.<em> So fucking sick of me.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I should have known this would happen. I should have known this <em> already </em> happened, should have known from the moment he ghosted me—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ghosted. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Oh, Crowley. Oh, fuck. </p><p> </p><p>That's when I remember about his mum. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p> </p><p>I hate myself more than I ever have before as I run down the staircase away from our bedroom. </p><p> </p><p>If I didn't have so much practice with it, I don't think I'd be able to stop the tears from flowing. But I'm very accomplished at being stoic, at being heartless, at being the bad guy. </p><p> </p><p>Or, at least I'm very, very good at pretending.</p><p> </p><p>I cast <b>Make A Wish </b>as soon as I start down the stairs to the Catacombs. I'm thirsty—too thirsty. I haven't been able to get full or warm since the coffin. I haven't been able to feel human. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 'Why can't you ever manage to be a decent fucking human being?' </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Good question, Snow. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe because I'm not one. </p><p> </p><p>I head to my mother's crypt before I drink for the night. (I don't like visiting her after I've fed. I spend the time imagining the crushing weight of her disappointment at what I am when I've got rat's blood in my cheeks. It makes my heart ache, even if it's just all in my head.) I think, to most people, the Catacombs would seem creepy. But even before my vampirism kicked in, I always found it comforting down here. Admittedly, it is pretty eerie, with its dark stone walls lined with torches that can only be lit by magic. But my mother's resting place was made especially for her, with her legacy in mind. Wall to ceiling, the room is covered in white marble that catches the light and looks supernaturally kaleidoscopic. Her tomb is made of solid gold with the Pitch motto in Latin: <em> Vires acquirit eundo. </em> We gather strength as we go. </p><p> </p><p>I kneel at the foot of her casket and lay my head on it. If anyone were to come down here right now, I think it would look as if I were praying. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe I am. </p><p> </p><p><em> Merlin, </em> I plead, <em> Grant me the strength to stay away from Simon Snow. </em> </p><p> </p><p>I thought it was hard before. I thought I ached as much as a person could ache—every cell in my body, every last molecule, yearned for Simon. I knew it was an impossible wish from the minute I realised I was in love with him—a wretched day back in fifth year where I ran a kilometer into the Wavering Woods and just screamed at the injustice of my traitorous heart. </p><p> </p><p>But then I had to do the worst thing this summer. I had to find hope. </p><p> </p><p><em> Hope for what? </em> I think to myself bitterly. <em> Did you really think he'd ever want you? </em></p><p> </p><p>I shut my eyes even tighter, trying to push away the ridiculous dreams I harbored this summer—the near expectations I had of <em> more.  </em></p><p> </p><p>We are enemies. He's the golden boy and I'm a vampire. What more is there? What more could there ever be?</p><p> </p><p>Despite knowing this—despite everything that being in love with him has done to me—I pull out my phone and click on my messages. I scroll down to my conversation with Snow. </p><p> </p><p>There's sixty one unanswered messages in a row from him. Starting with <em> "how was tennis" </em> and ending with <em> "go fuck yourself." </em> Re-reading them makes me sick. I skip them, scroll up to before. </p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Snow (10:43 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> we should tip off the buzzfeed unsolved guys to go to that banshee cave in scotland  </em></p><p><b> <em>Snow (10:43 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> that would be a great episode </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (10:44 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> One: That would be against Coven law, and break the one rule everyone agrees on: don't tip off the Normals about magic.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (10:44 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> Two: How the fuck do you know about Shane and Ryan?  </em></p><p><b> <em>Snow (10:45 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> they are youtube sensations!!!! </em></p><p><b> <em>Snow (10:45 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> so which one do you have a crush on  </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (10:45 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> I will rip your tongue out and wear it as a necklace if you don't shut the fuck up. </em></p><p><b> <em>Snow (10:45 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> fucking chomsky ur dramatic  </em></p><p><b> <em>Snow (10:45 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> tho if you really did that, it would make a good episode of buzzfeed unsolved </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (10:46 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> You are impossible.  </em></p><p> </p><p>So, so impossible. </p><p> </p><p>When the numpties hit me over the head, for some inexplicable reason, I thought of Snow fighting the chimaera back in fifth year. Swinging that damned sword in a circle and fearlessly clubbing the beast at the crown of its head. Except, this time, I was the dark creature getting bashed. </p><p> </p><p>I came back to consciousness when I was already nailed into the coffin. The time and breath I wasted screaming passed with no intelligent thoughts floating through my head—just a primal, choking panic. It took a while—Merlin knows exactly how long—for me to start to wonder who in their right mind would kidnap the Heir of Pitch. Even more pressing: who would know that the Heir of Pitch needed blood to continue existing? </p><p> </p><p>The answer didn't take that long to form. There's only one person with both the audacity and knowledge. A man who hates my family with a fury, and whose heir has told him, probably over and over,<em> 'my roommate is an evil vampire.' </em></p><p> </p><p>I told my Aunt Fiona that it couldn't possibly be the Mage. That he wouldn't be so foolish or so shortsighted. It was a brazen lie on my part. I knew she wouldn't let me come back to school if I said what I was thinking: <em> of course it was him.  </em></p><p> </p><p>My only question now is whether Snow knew about it. </p><p> </p><p>I re-read the sixty-one messages again, hoping to find something new in them. Trying to decipher the change in tone: from casual, to worried, to confused, to angry. Asking myself all the same questions. </p><p> </p><p>Is that because he really didn't know where I was? (How could he not? He's the Mage's Heir.)</p><p> </p><p>Is that because he didn't know until he got back to school? (The messages stopped several days into the term. The Mage could have told him then.) </p><p> </p><p>Was he just playing with me? (Could he manage it? I've always thought of him as guileless.) </p><p> </p><p>Was the summer of texting just an elaborate hallucination my sick brain concocted? (Merlin, I hope not.) </p><p> </p><p>Have I been stupidly romanticizing every text message he sent me? (Definitely.) </p><p> </p><p>I don't find any new answers going down this spiraling road; I'm just left with the bitter taste of confusion and self-hatred on my tongue. Yet again. </p><p> </p><p>I've wasted my fourth summer in a row with ridiculous thoughts of Simon Snow haunting me. I passed the time for two months in that coffin mapping the constellations on his body in drawn-out fantasies. I can't spend the entirety of autumn torturing myself with past messages from Snow. </p><p> </p><p>My fingers hover over our conversation, and I swipe to the left and impulsively click the red delete button. But the warning screen—"Would you like to delete this conversation?"—pops up and weakens my resolve. With a huff, I click cancel and shove my iPhone in my pocket roughly, and whisper to myself, <em> "Stop." </em>Though, I'm not sure what I'm hoping I'll stop doing exactly. The concept of falling out of love with him feels as incomprehensible as learning how to live without oxygen. </p><p> </p><p>I stare at my mother's tomb until my eyes go blurry. I want to stay down here forever, despite the cold, but my stomach is becoming queasy with hunger, my fangs anxious with thirst, and I know I can't put off feeding any longer. I whisper <em> I love you </em>in Egyptian Arabic to my mum—the way she used to when she put me to bed as a small child—and slink away, further into the Catacombs, towards the dark shadows where the rats live. </p><p> </p><p>As I creep up the stairs, I'm hoping Snow will be asleep. The soft snoring I hear when I open the door to the dimly lit room seems to suggest he is. Our bedroom is illuminated only by the moonlight creeping in from the open window. I sigh in annoyance—thanks to Snow, our bedroom is nearly as cold as the Catacombs—but I wait until I'm finished getting ready for bed in the loo before I go to shut it. I'm careful to be quiet so I won't wake him. </p><p> </p><p>I settle into my bed and let out a little sigh of relief. I haven't slept very well since I was kidnapped, but Watford's my home. If there's anywhere that I can relax, it's here, with the calm hush of the tower and the smell of Snow's bonfire magic.</p><p> </p><p>I'm about to drift off when he breaks the silence with a whisper so low I barely catch it (maybe I wouldn't have heard it if I weren't a vampire). "Can we please talk?" </p><p> </p><p>I want to say yes. I want to turn over and look into his blue eyes and ask the questions brewing inside me.<em> Did you know that the Mage kept me in a coffin for two months? Do you have any idea how painful and demeaning and agonizing that was for me? Do you know I have nightmares about it every night? Do you know I fantasized about your smile to keep myself from going insane? </em></p><p> </p><p>But I don't ask, because I don't really want to know the answer. Because if he really knew what the Mage did to me—if he had any inkling of it—it will shatter me so completely I'm not sure any amount of healing spells would be able to put me back together. That betrayal would wound me so deeply, so completely, that I think the little bit of humanity I've held onto since that coffin would slip away, and I'd be left as a ghost of my former self. </p><p> </p><p>So, instead, I turn over and pretend to be asleep. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Over the years, I've grown accustomed to Snow's eyes following me. But it's getting out of hand, even by my low standards for him. </p><p> </p><p>I'm impressed Niall is able to wait an entire week to comment on it. "If Snow goes off, I'm blaming you," he says to me at dinner, his expression resentful. I turn to Dev for backup, but he seems to be in agreement with Niall. </p><p> </p><p>"Why? I'm not his keeper," I reply resentfully. </p><p> </p><p>“That excuse won’t work for me when he kills us all. I'm texting my mum to tell her to engrave 'this is all Baz's fault' on my tombstone if the nuclear bomb explodes on me. ”</p><p> </p><p>“Merlin, the dramatics." I roll my eyes. "That’s supposed to be my thing, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, well. Forgive me if I’m getting sick of your rivalry. You know, he cornered me and Dev a dozen times this year, pestering us about your whereabouts.” </p><p> </p><p>He pauses, like he’s giving me a chance to mention where I’ve been. Neither Dev or Niall have directly asked, waiting for me to open up about it myself. Good men. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, I try to keep my voice casual as I say, “Snow was asking about me?” I bring my tea cup up to my lips in a show of nonchalance.</p><p> </p><p>Niall shoots me a look that’s both incredulous and annoyed. “Asking is a mild way of putting it, mate. He was <em> demanding </em>to know where you’d been.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Why would he ask Dev and Niall if he already knew? </em> I wonder. He can't exactly let it slip to <em> me </em> that he knew about the coffin, but why pretend to be ignorant to my mates? </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Could he not know? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dev breaks me from my musings when he smirks and quips, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Snow has a crush.”</p><p> </p><p>I thank Magick that my vampirism has dulled my ability to blush. </p><p> </p><p>"Don't be ridiculous," I snap. The universe isn't kind enough to make Simon Snow gay. </p><p> </p><p>In spite of myself, my eyes flit over to Snow, who's been staring at me for most of dinner. His face was already screwed up in concentration, and when I meet his eyes, they narrow. He opens his mouth, like he's about to shout at me from across the dining hall, so I look away from him. </p><p> </p><p>My eyes catch Agatha Wellbelove by accident. She's been sitting alone all week, casting me these hopeful glances. I'm not sure exactly what she's hoping <em>for;</em> I've gathered that her and Snow are on a break of sorts, but I don't see why she'd want to muddy the waters with <em> me </em>of all people. That'll surely do lasting damage to her perfect destiny with Snow. </p><p> </p><p><em> Though, </em> a small, pathetic voice in the back of my head whispers, <em> maybe they aren't as perfect as they appear to be.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I mean, sure, they <em> look </em> good together. The heterosexual pairing of the Chosen One and the prettiest girl at school is expected, but… are they really <em> happy? </em> If you're dating the person you really want to be with, shouldn't you be fucking ecstatic about it? But Snow hardly mentioned her all summer. And, before, he hardly mentioned her at <em> all </em>unless it's to remind me to keep away from her (an issue I'll thankfully avoid this year now that he knows I'm gay). </p><p> </p><p>I'm probably just projecting. I've just had too much time to read meaning into every inconsequential thing Simon Snow said to me this summer. There was far too much energy spent on dissecting his text messages—the way it felt like we were on the edge when he texted me <em> "is this how you flirt? if it is ur awful at it." </em> Just because I spent two months from being one revealing text away from showing my hand doesn't mean anything has changed. </p><p> </p><p>I cast a heating spell on the tea I've let cool, and force myself not to look at the lightning storm that is Simon Snow. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>I didn't think I'd be able to avoid him forever, but I thought I'd last longer than ten days. </p><p> </p><p>I'm on my bed reading old messages from Snow. I've given up the pretense that I'm strong enough to resist this particular indulgence. </p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Snow (8:59 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> i dont get what the big deal about crocs are </em></p><p><b> <em>Snow (8:59 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> like why does everyone hate them so much </em></p><p><b> <em>Snow (9:00 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> they r just shoes? </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (9:00 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> Hell and horrors, Snow.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Snow (9:00 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> what? </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (9:00 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> Just shoes? Next you're going to say merwolves are just gentle sea creatures.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (9:00 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> I can forgive you for slaying a dragon, but I cannot forgive this fashion faux pas. </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (9:01 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> I am literally going to pretend not to know you at school.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Snow (9:01 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> oh fuck you </em></p><p> </p><p>When Snow bursts in, his eyes zero in on my iPhone. He lets out a petulant growl and reaches for it, but I pull my hand away. </p><p> </p><p>"Boundaries!" I yelp, a little high pitched in my embarrassment. (If he had managed to grab my cell he'd realise I was laying in bed nostalgically rereading our old messages. <em> Crowley. </em>I may as well have tattooed 'Simon Snow's bitch' on my forehead.) I shove my phone in my back pocket so he won't take it. </p><p> </p><p>"Why do you have that?" he growls. </p><p> </p><p>"What?" My voice is sharpened by my incomprehension. "It's mine. Why wouldn't I have it?"</p><p> </p><p>"I mean," Simon huffs in frustration, "why isn't it at the bottom of the English channel or crushed under a stampede of centaurs or, or." He throws his hands up. "I'm asking why you ignored all my messages when you <em> obviously </em>have a working phone!"</p><p> </p><p>His outburst seems to echo in our room, an awkward hush descending upon us. I thought (or maybe <em> hoped) </em>we'd never talk about the messages again. The reality of this summer rattles around the quiet room and gives me a headache. </p><p> </p><p>The truth is that when the numpties kidnapped me, my phone shattered and broke. Without my wand (which I had dropped at the Club), I couldn't fix it in the coffin. It didn't work until two weeks ago, when Fiona came and saved me and I was able to cast <b>Good as New </b>on it. That's when the flood of messages started pouring in. </p><p> </p><p>But that's none of Snow's business, and I tell him as much. </p><p> </p><p>"The <em> fuck </em> it isn't!" he rages. His anger sends a shiver through me; I can never differentiate whether that feeling in my gut is lust or fear when he gets like this. "You—you <em> disappear! </em>Out of nowhere! And—and—ugh!" He rips at his hair from the root, and it tangles up his already messy hair. </p><p> </p><p>I decide what I feel towards him is mostly anger, and retort, "As if you didn't already know." </p><p> </p><p>"What is <em> that </em>supposed to mean?" </p><p> </p><p>I don't even know what I believe anymore—I don't know anything these days. Except that I can't get warm, no matter how many hot showers I take or how many rats I drain dry. And my leg throbs so badly I can't play football anymore. And my heart gets more broken and bruised and tattered every second I spend in Simon Snow's presence. </p><p> </p><p>I stand up—to leave, to run, to hide—but Snow grabs me by the wrist. I try to pull away but his grip is firm, tight, so strong that I'd have to use my vampire strength to get away. But I don't, because he's warm and insistent and a shameful, inconvenient part of me wants him close to me, no matter how hard I keep pushing him away. </p><p> </p><p>"Wait, just. Baz. <em> Listen," </em>he insists. "There's something I need to tell you." </p><p> </p><p>I don't protest. Maybe because I'm hoping he'll tell me that, over the summer, he'd realised that he's desperately attracted to me. Maybe because I'm hoping he'll admit that he was in on the plan to have me imprisoned in that coffin. Maybe just because a sick part of me likes getting burned by him, no matter how much it festers and blisters. </p><p> </p><p>"When the Veil lifted, you weren't here." He's usually always blustering, but right now he seems to be picking his words carefully. "But your mum came for you." </p><p> </p><p>Of all my improbable guesses—this is the last thing I had expected. </p><p> </p><p>I stand up abruptly—yanking back my arm, which I hadn't realised was still in Snow's grasp—and start pacing. All the while, Snow keeps speaking. Quickly, like he wants to get it all out at once. My head spins as he tells the story, heart racing as the details unfold: her killer, Nicodemus, the forehead kiss, the rosebud boy. When he stops speaking, the only noise in the room is the sound of my Derby brogues clicking on the wood floors. </p><p> </p><p>"She came for you?" I ask and he nods. "She said to find Nicodemus?" Another nod. "Who. <em> The fuck. </em>Is Nicodemus."</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head. "I don't know. I thought you'd know." </p><p> </p><p>I growl at the cruel injustice of it all. My mother visited. She came for me. <em> Me. </em> Her son, a <em> vampire.  </em></p><p> </p><p>And I was in that damned coffin. </p><p> </p><p>"Where <em> were </em> you, Baz?" he asks—a question I can't even begin to answer. </p><p> </p><p>I feel my usually-slow heart start to speed up, the shame and fear and rage and injustice flowing through my veins and making me feel almost human, in the worst possible way. I want to feel cold and detached instead—I want to reach into that part of me that was able to feel almost nothing in that coffin. </p><p> </p><p>"Why couldn't she find you?" Snow's tone isn't accusing. It might even be kind. But in my anger and hurt, the question is warped and ugly, infuriating in its passing cruelty. </p><p> </p><p>"Fuck you, Snow!" I scream, resorting to his default insult in an argument. He seems taken aback by it—so much so that he actually takes a step back. </p><p> </p><p>I take that as an opportunity to flee. I make a break for the door and go flying down the stairwell. I run and run and run—away from the crushing weight of grief in my chest. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! If you have a minute, let me know what you thought :) </p><p>Come find me on <a href="https://annabellelux.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Summertime</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><em>And if you stay, I would even wait all night<br/>Or until my heart explodes, how long until we<br/>Find our way in the dark and out of harm?<br/>You can run away with me</em><br/>Summertime, My Chemical Romance</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey, it's the final chapter (ahead of schedule again because I love you guys)! </p><p>This story was a joy to write and a gift for a good friend. <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/blessedfetish/pseuds/thedaggerrose">@thedaggerrose</a> said she wanted more texting fics, so I decided to write her one for her birthday! (It was originally supposed to be about 8-10K, but when have I ever written a story as concisely as intended? also I'm happy I was able to give her a short novella as a token of my affection) I am so thankful for her friendship &amp; I like to express that by writing her banter, angst, &amp; smut💖💖💖</p><p>Thank you again and again to the lovely <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu">@giishu</a> for being an excellent beta (and friend)! </p><p>Thank you to the person reading this sentence right now for sticking with me through this story; I love getting to share my words &amp; love of Snowbaz. Hope you enjoy the ending!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Baz slams the door behind him. The silence he leaves in his wake is deafening; my hand reaches up to my ear reflexively, as if to shut it out. </p><p> </p><p>He obviously wants nothing to do with me. Given that he's been avoiding me for weeks and has flat out told me to leave him alone on multiple occasions, I'd say he's sending a pretty clear message: <em> Stay away.   </em></p><p> </p><p>And yet. </p><p> </p><p>Of all the emotions Baz let flash across his face—shock, grief, anger, hurt—the most troubling one was fear. </p><p> </p><p>I'm sure now that <em> something </em> happened to him these past few months. His absence and his limp and his sullenness and his nightmares all add up to something, even if I don't know quite what he's scared <em> of.  </em></p><p> </p><p><em> Crowley, </em> I think, <em> Baz gets scared. </em>I don't think I've ever fully realised that before. Never let myself see it, never let myself think of him as anything more than the arrogant Pitch heir, as a cold-blooded vampire, as the enemy at the finish line. This summer, I realised he was more than that. He became more than that in my eyes. But I guess he's never felt quite… human to me. (Not in the literal sense, but in the emotional sense.) </p><p> </p><p>I dig through my nightstand and pull out my BlackBerry. It says it's just barely got any battery—that is, until I tighten my grip on it and let my excess magic flow through. I pull up my messages with Baz just as the battery icon flashes full. </p><p> </p><p><b> <em>Me (4:31 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> you seem like a fake person </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (4:32 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> Excuse you? </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (4:32 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> i mean like you act like a caricature of a rich posh prick  </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (4:32 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> who in the 21st century walks around with embroidered hankerchiefs??  </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (4:33 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> First of all, if you're going to attempt to insult my sense of fashion, you need to spell handkerchiefs properly or it just won't stick.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (4:32 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> people who correct other peoples grammer are annoying and u know it  </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (4:33 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> Second of all, bugger off. Those are my mother's.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (4:33 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> oh </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (4:33 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> Don't "oh" me.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (4:34 p.m.):</em> </b> <em> is that why you carry them around everywhere? they remind you of her?  </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (4:34 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> Ugh. We don't have to talk about feelings.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Baz (4:34 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> What's next, are we going to braid our hair, paint our nails, and gossip about boys?  </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (4:35 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> depends on the boy. are we talking David Beckham or </em></p><p><b><em>Baz (4:34 p.m.):</em></b><em> Well,</em> <em>anyways. Did you catch the cricket tournament the other day? </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (4:35 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> what cricket game </em></p><p><b> <em>Me (4:35 p.m.): </em> </b> <em> and also of course not </em></p><p> </p><p>I bite my fingernails as I reread the messages from late July. This was the first—and only—time Baz mentioned his mother. I dropped it when he changed the subject, and we delved into bickering about whether cricket is a valid sport for a while. (There wasn't even a cricket tournament on; he was just trying to annoy me, since he knows I think the game's bollocks.) After that, I kind of just forgot that he mentioned his mother (which, in hindsight, was probably his intention).</p><p> </p><p>Everyone knows how Headmistress Natasha Pitch died back when Baz was just a kid, but he doesn't talk about her much. The only other time I'd heard him mention her was that time we had to write an essay for Poli Sci about the Mage's ascendancy. When Professor Plutarch asked who wanted to share their research, Baz was the first to volunteer. His speech was gutsy, even for him; he was practically calling for revolution. He frequently used the phrase <em> "when my mother was headmistress" </em> in a tone that was equal parts pompous and reverent, and I wasn't sure if I felt miffed or sorry for him. (On his way back to his seat, he snarked that his presentation was so well-organized even someone like <em> me </em>should have been able to follow it, and I decided I was definitely annoyed.)</p><p> </p><p>He obviously loves her. Of course he does—she's his <em> mother. </em>Don't need to have one of my own to know it has to hurt to lose one. I thought he'd be upset when I told him he missed her Visiting, but he's more than that. He's devastated. </p><p> </p><p>Should I go send his friends to go talk to him? Cook Pritchard is his cousin; should I send her? Should I go look for him myself? </p><p> </p><p>I know which of those options I want to do. I'm like a damn moth to a flame when it comes to him. I'll let him burn me, over and over again, just to be close. I never learn. </p><p> </p><p> <b>Me (8:49 p.m.): </b>Please come back </p><p> </p><p>I hit send and throw my phone down, telling myself not to look unless I hear my phone beep. I'm pacing when, not even a minute later, the Blackberry buzzes. I dive onto my bed for it, the impact of the mattress knocking my held breath out of my lungs. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Message from: Do Not Reply</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Error! Your message failed to send. Message cannot be received, because the recipient does not have service. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>I growl in frustration. I just saw him on his phone twenty minutes ago! And I know there's service at Watford. Penny came back this year with a cell phone, and she told me that tons of students secretly have them and use them to send invites to parties in the Wavering Wood. <em> ("I never told you because I assumed you wouldn't want to go, Simon. Who wants to hang out with dozens of drunk teenagers?" "I do, Pen!")  </em></p><p> </p><p>If there's service even in the Wavering Woods, there should be service on the whole campus. Unless… </p><p> </p><p>Unless Baz is underground. </p><p> </p><p>My feet take me to the Catacombs quickly, the muscle memory of long nights spent looking for Baz ingrained in me. Penny made me drop the bad habit of stalking Baz down here back in the spring of fifth year, but I picked it back up when he didn't come back to school. I kept expecting—hoping—I'd catch him lurking down here.  </p><p> </p><p>I cast a <b>Light The Way </b>as I'm walking down the stone steps to the Catacombs. There's a white flash, and then there's a glass orb at eye level in front of me. </p><p> </p><p>"Take me to Baz," I whisper. Though, it's an unnecessary command; the orb is already floating down the hallway. I jog a little to catch up with it, heart racing in victory. </p><p> </p><p>It's a tricky spell, and though my magic always comes to me when I need it most, the incantation has a requirement that your intentions are benevolent. It never worked back in fifth year, because—even though I thought I was doing the noble thing—the spell must have known that it would be wrong to expose Baz as a vampire. </p><p> </p><p>Even with the white light of the spell to light the path, the Catacombs' hallways are creepy. Maybe even more so, since now I can see the dirt and rats and skeletons down here clearly. I've always hated coming down to the Catacombs, but that didn't stop me from spending nearly every night down here back in fifth year. Back then, I was nervous that maybe Baz had enthralled me with his vampirism. But now I'm starting to fear the real answer is much scarier. </p><p> </p><p>The orb takes me deep into the tunnels, further in than I've ever been before. Just as I'm starting to worry that my magic botched up the spell, I see an illuminated room ahead, made of white marble with a golden coffin in the center. A figure with dark hair is kneeling in front of the crypt; it'd look as if he was praying if his shoulders weren't heaving. </p><p> </p><p>My heart jumps to my throat as I realise it's Baz, on his knees and wracked with sobs. </p><p> </p><p>I don't think about moving; my body just reacts instinctively to the sight of Baz crying. I drop to my knees beside him, and I place my hand on his shoulder, and—</p><p> </p><p>He's across the room in a flash. I blink my eyes, shocked at his sudden movement. I've seen Baz move fast before—he's a lightning bolt on the pitch—but he's always sprinted just within the realm of human possibility. I don't know if he's realised, in his rush to get away from me, that he just did something supernatural. </p><p> </p><p>He drags the back of his forearms over his eyes, but he can't hide the evidence of the pink puffiness of his eyes. He's forced his face into a scowl, but since his lips are red and pouty, his expression is more petulant than intimidating. </p><p> </p><p>"How did you find me?" he demands, his voice cracking slightly. He flinches at the break in his voice, but keeps his frown resolutely on. </p><p> </p><p>I point at the lighted orb hanging in the air between us. "Light The Way," I reply, without magic. </p><p> </p><p>His eyebrows knit together. "I'm surprised you managed to accomplish that spell, Snow. Isn't it a little out of your skill range?" he sneers derisively. </p><p> </p><p>I don't rise to the bait. Instead, I ask, "Are you okay?" </p><p> </p><p><em> "I'm </em> fine, Snow. <em> You, </em> on the other hand, are an intrusive, tactless—"</p><p> </p><p>"No one who says they're '<em> fine' </em> is ever really fine," I interrupt, repeating the words he said to me during the one phone call we had this summer. I can tell he remembers it, because his lips pout slightly (more than usual, anyways—he's got a real mouth for pouting). </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "What if that's all bollocks?" I said to him bitterly, when he was trying to tell me it would be alright, trying to tell me that being Simon Snow meant anything.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "It's not," he insisted. His voice was assertive, almost forceful. But then it softened when he added, "You're not."   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My heart swelled in my chest with an unnameable thing, so great I wasn't sure I could fit it all in my body. All I could bring myself to reply was, "Okay."  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>On days I felt so utterly and totally miserable this summer, Baz could always tell. I think he'd try to cheer me up, even if he did it a bit unconventionally, with all his ruthless teasing. But that's just how Baz <em> is. </em>A fucking stubborn and infuriating pain in the arse. But also funny and loyal and softer than anyone (especially me) gives him credit for. </p><p> </p><p>I take a step forward towards him. He stiffens, but doesn't back away, so I risk taking another. I'm close enough now that I can smell his cologne—a familiar woodsy (but clearly expensive) scent.  </p><p> </p><p>"I'm not going to." I realise, with an uncomfortable pang in my chest, that my voice has gone low and throaty with emotion. I clear my throat. "I'm not going to hurt you." </p><p> </p><p>His facial expression is closed off, but his eyes are darting like a cornered animal. I want to wipe one of the tears he missed—it's clinging to the curve of his nose—but that's a sure way to get him to run, so I clench my fists to resist the irrational urge. </p><p> </p><p>"Like <em> you </em> could hurt me," he retorts.  </p><p> </p><p><em> "You </em> hurt <em> me," </em> I say. I'm being honest: all this fighting with Baz <em> hurts </em>. More than anything, though, seeing him hurt hurts.  </p><p> </p><p>It's not what he was expecting; his jaw unclenches and his lips part in surprise. It washes some of the blankness off his face. From this close, I can see every nearly-imperceptible change in his expression. I don't know how I ever thought he only had four emotions. Baz is just better than anyone at hiding. </p><p> </p><p>Well. No more of that. Not with me. </p><p> </p><p>My words come out in a determined rush. "You can tell me, Baz. Anything. Whatever happened, we'll fix it. With your mum and whatever happened this summer—"</p><p> </p><p>I'm cut off by Baz's laughter—a bitter, angry thing. </p><p> </p><p>"Stop talking about the summer! It's maddening listening to you pretend not to know!" </p><p> </p><p>"I <em> don't </em> know," I snap. "You decided you would start ignoring me out of nowhere, remember?"</p><p> </p><p>His face is so contorted by rage that he looks like a caricature of fury. "I was in a fucking coffin the whole time, you arsehole!" His words rattle around my brain a couple of times before they stick. </p><p> </p><p>"You <em> what?" </em>I mean to yell it, too, but my voice comes out as a ragged whisper.  </p><p> </p><p>He's not suffering from the same inability to scream as I am. "I was kidnapped by numpties! And kept in an honest to Merlin <em> coffin! </em> Because it wasn't enough to just imprison me, no! I also had to be tortured by the fucking <em> symbolism </em>of it all!" His tone is sarcastic and sour and drenched in pain; it knocks the wind out of me. </p><p> </p><p>"That… that's where you've been this whole time?" I ask in a small voice. </p><p> </p><p>Two months. Two months I spent stomping around the Catacombs and the Wavering Woods, thinking he was off plotting and scheming and making a fool of me. Instead, he was locked in a wooden box. The image is sickening—a full body shiver shoots through me at the horror of it. </p><p> </p><p>"Yes, fucking obviously. <em> Now, </em> stop acting like you weren't in on it," he growls. </p><p> </p><p>It takes me several moments to realise what he's accusing me of, because the idea of it is so ridiculous. </p><p> </p><p>"I didn't—I wasn't! Fucking hell, Baz. If I knew, I would've, I would've," I stammer, tugging at my curls. "I would've come for you!" </p><p> </p><p>"You would have saved me? <em> You?" </em>he mocks, his voice dripping in disbelief. </p><p> </p><p>"Yes!" </p><p> </p><p>"Who the bloody hell do you think had me kidnapped, Snow?" he snarls, looking down his nose at me. "Think about it for a minute. Who'd have the bollocks to kidnap the Heir of Pitch? Who has a grudge against my family? Who would know that I need blood to survive?" </p><p> </p><p>It doesn't take a genius to guess where Baz is going with this. "No. He—the Mage?"</p><p> </p><p>The set of Baz's eyebrows gets angrier at my incredulous tone. "How have you <em> survived </em> being this daft? Honestly?" </p><p> </p><p>"Don't be a prick, Baz! I'm not being daft. It's just. He's the headmaster of our school. He's not going to just go around kidnapping students. That would be crazy. " </p><p> </p><p>"Maybe he wouldn't do it to <em> any </em> student," he says slowly. His eyes flash with hatred, and it sends a rush of dread through me. "But why not to me? Haven't you spent years telling him that I'm an evil, plotting vampire, Snow?" </p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh no.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I see all at once why he's been avoiding me. </p><p> </p><p>"Baz—" I say, reaching out for the sleeve of his jumper. As soon as my fingertips brush against the cashmere, he's yanking himself away from me and rushing out of the arch doorway of the tomb.</p><p> </p><p>Panic claws its way up my throat, and I manage to spit out, "Wait." He doesn't wait. </p><p> </p><p>I follow him. I always do—I can't help it. I need to make him understand. I need him to know that I meant what I said: I won't hurt him. Not ever again. </p><p> </p><p>I grab him by the shoulders and push him against the stonewall of the hallway. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p> </p><p>It only works because I'm not expecting it. Though, by now, I really should know better. Simon Snow never backs down from anything or anyone—especially not me. </p><p> </p><p>"You think I knew about the kidnapping, don't you?" he asks, though it doesn't sound like a question. I'm hyper aware of everything: the uneven roughness of the wall behind me, the still chillness breezing through the hallway, the sound of rodents scurrying a dozen yards away. And most of all, I'm aware of him. (I always am.) "I didn't know. I <em> didn't. </em>If I had, I would've torn England apart looking for you. Merlin, Baz. I was already spending all the time you were gone trying to find if you were hiding somewhere at Watford. The wood nymphs banished me from the Wavering Woods because they were sick of me pestering them about you." </p><p> </p><p>I want to believe him. He seems to be telling the truth. But… "Why? Because you thought I was off plotting against you?" I sneer. </p><p> </p><p>"Because I <em> missed </em> you, you prat," he says earnestly. His face is so close to mine, I can feel his breath on my chin. He gently brushes a stray lock of my hair behind my ear, and I worry he can hear me gulp. </p><p> </p><p>I want to keep arguing with him. Fighting is our stable ground, and this delicate, enigmatic thing between us feels too shaky. I didn't plan for a scenario in which Simon Snow would want my company. I didn't expect to ever be this close—close enough for him to send me up in flames with just the feel of his hands on my shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>I open my mouth to say something scathing, but instead, what comes out is, "Simon…" </p><p> </p><p>He closes the narrow gap between us to put his lips on mine. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Baz's mouth is open when I kiss him, and his noise of surprise is muffled by my lips. I panic for a split second, because he's not exactly responding. He's just standing there, lips unmoving with his hands still by his side. I wait for the swing to come—for the horrible consequences of the fact that I've wildly misjudged the tension between us—but it doesn't. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, he grabs my curls in fist-fulls and kisses me back hungrily.</p><p> </p><p>His lips are cold, but softer than I anticipated. I hum involuntarily against his mouth, pleased that he's responding. I thought there was a chance he <em> might </em> reciprocate, but nothing could have prepared me for his whole-hearted enthusiasm. It's messy, and I'm pretty sure this is his first kiss, but I don't care. All I care about is his fingers running through my hair, and his hand running down my waist, and the fact that this is the single most electric thing that has ever happened to me. (And I'm a person who <em> explodes </em>with the force of my magic.) (I think I might explode right now, all over Baz.) </p><p> </p><p>I don't know how long I've wanted this. Has it just occurred to me right now that I wanted to kiss him? Have I wanted this since the first text message, since the first phone call, since he disappeared back in August? Have I always wanted him?</p><p> </p><p>I'm not sure when the thought of <em> us </em> first occurred to me. All I know is that I couldn't hold myself back from kissing him any longer. </p><p> </p><p>(Maybe being like a moth to a flame isn't so bad, after all. Not if he's burning with me.) </p><p> </p><p>I grab his arse and pull our hips flush together, and it makes Baz groan against my mouth. The noise sets off fireworks in my body—through my fingertips, in my chest, below the waist. I bite his lower lip roughly and he lets out another moan, this one even more high-pitched and erotic. </p><p> </p><p>I start unbuttoning his white button-down. I try to be careful with his clothing for only a moment, before I get too impatient and just rip the damn thing to get it open. Baz makes a noise of protest until I place my lips on his collarbone—then the sound morphs into satisfied moan. His skin is smooth and soft, and when I kiss down to his nipple, his breathing becomes shaky with pleasure.</p><p> </p><p>It occurs to me that I'd never seen him shirtless before now. He always dresses in the loo, so I've never seen more than peaks of his thighs when he runs in football shorts or flashes of his abs when he wipes his sweat off his brow at practice. (In hindsight, maybe I need to rethink my motivations for watching his football practice.) I probably would've figured out what the stirring I get in my stomach when I see him <em> really </em> means a lot sooner if I had ever seen him undressed. </p><p> </p><p>I wonder what he looks like completely starkers. </p><p> </p><p>Without giving myself any time to overthink it, I drop to my knees. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p> </p><p>I think I've lost my mind. There's no other explanation for why Simon Snow would be on the floor, kneeling at my feet, looking up at me with his wet lips parted. He asks me a silent question with his eyes and I nod frantically. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yes, Simon Snow. Take anything you want. Take everything. You don't have to ask.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He places an open-mouthed kiss on my stomach and undoes my trousers with slightly shaking hands. When he tugs my waistband down, the fabric brushing against my crotch makes my hips jerk forward involuntarily. His face breaks into a self satisfied grin—either at my show of eagerness or at the fact I'm sporting an unmistakable erection. He presses his tongue against me through my briefs, and I hear myself inhale a sharp intake of breath. </p><p> </p><p>Aleister fucking Crowley—this is <em> real. </em> It has to be. I could never have imagined it'd be like <em> this: </em> Snow making the first move and teasing me and <em> getting on his knees to give me a blowjob.  </em></p><p> </p><p>No. This is the kind of surprise only the real Simon Snow would be capable of. This is already so much better than all of my fantasies. </p><p> </p><p>I'm about to be totally lost in the sensation—about to drown in the phenomenon that is Simon Snow's wet lips inches from my hard cock—when he rests his left hand on the wall behind him and I remember where we are. </p><p> </p><p>"Snow," I bristle, though my voice comes out far more raspy than I intend. "That's <em> filthy."  </em></p><p> </p><p>"Yeah? You like it?" His smile is dirty and it sends a rush of nervous anticipation through me—a feeling that is at once pleasurable and terrifying. </p><p> </p><p>"No," I say, but I quickly backtrack when his face drops. "I just meant that we're in the hallway of <em> Catacombs."  </em></p><p> </p><p>"So?" Snow asks, wide-eyed and tilting his head to the side. (The image is shockingly erotic.) (Though, I don't know why I'm surprised, really; everything Snow does is sexy to me.) "Don't you still want to?" He looks meaningfully at my tented pants. I realise that I'm so eager there's a wet spot there, and I'm glad it's been a couple hours since I've fed, or else I would've flushed pink. </p><p> </p><p>"Just hand me my wand," I command. I point down to the pockets of my trousers, which are pooling at my ankles. (Merlin, this is ridiculous. How is this my life?) He hands me my wand and I cast a <b>Clean As A Whistle </b>on the walls and floors around us. He rolls his eyes when I cast it on his hands too, but he doesn't complain. </p><p> </p><p>He looks at me through his eyelashes, and a rush of affection for him shoots through me. Impulsively, I point my wand downward and spell his knees with <b>Cushion The Blow </b>so that they won't hurt from kneeling on the hard floor. </p><p> </p><p>He thanks me by pulling my cock out of my pants, swallowing me down so suddenly I scream "Fuck!" </p><p> </p><p>Snow laughs in reaction to the expletive, but the vibration of his mouth just makes his mouth on me feel even better. My body forgets all the years of practice I've had not reacting to Simon Snow, and I whimper despite myself. When I open my eyes and look down at him, I see he's only able to fit half my cock into his mouth, and he's sloppily drooling all over it. Objectively, I know that this might not be his best look. Subjectively, I've never loved him more. </p><p> </p><p>I grab hold of his soft curls and run my nails along his scalp. "Yeah, yeah, just like that, fuck yeah." </p><p> </p><p>I think I must sound ridiculous, and a rush of embarrassment floods my stomach. But Simon doesn't seem to agree with my assessment, because he just keeps sucking harder, more enthusiastically. My knees buckle so hard I'm surprised I can stay upright. </p><p> </p><p>Words keep pouring out of my mouth unbidden; I'm powerless to stop them. "Yes, <em> oh, </em>you look so pretty sucking my cock, just like that, darling." </p><p> </p><p>He keeps going. It keeps getting messier and dirtier, and I can no longer hear any of the things I'm saying. My legs are shaking and my heart is roaring and I think my grip on Simon's hair should be hurting him, but he's not complaining. He's going at it like he does in the dining hall, like I'm the best dessert he's ever had. <em> Simon Snow, you were born to suck my cock, you beautiful bastard.  </em></p><p> </p><p>He looks me right in the eyes and I gasp as a familiar tingling sensation runs up my body. </p><p> </p><p>Oh, fuck. I'm going to <em> come—  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Baz suddenly yanks me back off his cock by my hair. The shock of it chokes me and I start coughing (loudly, unattractively).</p><p> </p><p>"What was that for?" I spit out. </p><p> </p><p>I was doing pretty well, if I do say so myself. <em> Born for it, </em> according to Baz. </p><p> </p><p>Baz was going absolutely feral, a mixture of curse words and moans spilling out of his mouth. I'd never fantasized about him talking dirty <em> (wait— </em>have I? That's a question for later, I suppose) but it's no wonder he's brill at it. So much so that I was palming myself through my trousers just listening to him. </p><p> </p><p>I look up at Baz, and a rush of pride runs through me when I realise how well-shagged he looks: he's panting hard and his grey eyes are wild and his skin has gone almost pinkish (which, for him, means he's practically gone scarlet). </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't reply; he just drags me up to him by my tie. He kisses me vigorously, his tongue running the roof of my mouth. His enthusiasm is contagious—or maybe it's just that I was already gagging for it—because, without deciding to, I'm quickly dry humping him against the stone wall. </p><p> </p><p>Sex has never felt like this before. Overwhelming and urgent and primal. Every point where Baz and I are touching sparks like lightning: our chests resting against each other, our tongues fighting for dominance, my hands at his hip and the back of his neck, his hands in my curls and undoing my tie in a swift motion. Every moment feels rushed and desperate, but I think I'll remember every second of this until my last breath. </p><p> </p><p>Especially when the hand that was on my tie moves down the waistband of my trousers. I let out an unsexy squeak when his hand wraps around my cock. </p><p> </p><p>If I thought this was electric before...</p><p> </p><p>"Jesus fucking Christ," I whine and buck into him. He huffs out a laugh at my Normal curse, but I can't help it. This feels. <em> Jesus fucking Christ. </em></p><p> </p><p>I rest my face in the nape of his neck and fuck myself into his hand. Then, when he takes both of us into his hand together, I bite down on him to keep myself from crying out.</p><p> </p><p>In response, he sobs "Simon!"—which only makes me start to try to suck a hickey into his neck. (I'm not sure if it's even possible, since he's a vampire, but <em> fuck </em>, I'm going to try.) </p><p> </p><p>There are no thoughts but the quickly building ecstacy of my upcoming orgasm. The hot white pleasure and the sounds of Baz's <em> "yes, yes, yes, yes, yes."  </em></p><p> </p><p>Right before I fall off the edge, I realise that I want to be kissing Baz when I come, so I catch my mouth with his. It's sloppier than ever—<em> messy, just like us, </em>I think, and then I'm coming on his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>I float out of my body with the force of my orgasm. I cry his name against his mouth, because it's the only thing in my head. <em> Baz! </em></p><p> </p><p>My body's shaking when I come back into it. I realise Baz hasn't come, so I grab his cock in my hands and whisper against his ear, "Come for me, darling."</p><p> </p><p>His orgasm is spectacular—he's as loud as he's been for the rest of this, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open as he moans through his peak. </p><p> </p><p>He's never looked so beautiful. </p><p> </p><p>I've never been so in love. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p> </p><p>We walk back to the bedroom in silence. We're so close together that our hands' brush against each other's every couple of steps. I've got the urge to grab his, but I don't want to be presumptuous. Which almost seems like a ridiculous worry, considering we just had sex. </p><p> </p><p>Aleister Crowley. I just had sex. With Simon Snow. In the <em> Catacombs.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I think Fiona would guillotine me if she knew. My father would be so ashamed, he'd never be able to look me in the eyes again. </p><p> </p><p>I'm fairly certain it's the afterglow talking, but I don't even bloody care. </p><p> </p><p>He follows me up the staircase to our bedroom, and shuts the door behind him. I realise I don't know how the fuck we're going to carry on now. Do I follow up with, <em> 'Well, that was fun, Snow. Fancy a round two?' </em>Probably not. </p><p> </p><p>I sit down on my bed, and pretend to be very interested in a loose thread in my comforter. </p><p> </p><p>"So…" Snow says. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see he's sat down on his own bed. "Um. I don't think I'm, like, gay."</p><p> </p><p>A rush of shame nearly chokes me at that. What just happened then—a fun experiment?</p><p> </p><p>"No one cares if you're gay," I snap, and I thank Merlin and Morgana my voice doesn't crack. </p><p> </p><p>My heart feels like it's being burned through by a chimera's rage. I want to run and hide in the Catacombs, but now the place is forever tainted with bittersweet memories of Simon bloody Snow. </p><p> </p><p>Oh, fuck. Did I just ruin my existence for a blowjob? </p><p> </p><p>"I'm a terrible boyfriend," Snow carries on, like he can't see that I'm about to self-immolate here. "I can't remember anniversaries, and I'm pants at gift-giving, and I always say the wrong thing." </p><p> </p><p>"Everyone knows you're an illiterate numpty, Snow. Do you have a point?" </p><p> </p><p>I need to get out of here, I need to leave right now, I'm going to fucking cry again—</p><p> </p><p>"But," he says softly, "I like looking at you." </p><p> </p><p>My head involuntarily snaps up at that. I'm looking into Simon Snow's blue eyes, and his face is open with honesty and vulnerability. Every insult in my repertoire is wiped out when I look at him. All I can manage to respond is, "What?"</p><p> </p><p>Snow blushes, and it's the prettiest thing I've ever seen. "I fancy you. A lot. I mean, I'm pretty mad for you." </p><p> </p><p>He keeps steady eye contact through his confession, because he's a brave bastard. I can't look away, can't move. I think I've been hypnotised by Simon Snow and, for the first time, I don't think it's going to break me. </p><p> </p><p>"I think maybe you fancy me a bit too?" he asks shyly, like he doesn't realise what a comically huge understatement that is. "I think maybe you want to be my boyfriend, even if I am going to be terrible at it?" </p><p> </p><p>I could proceed a million ways right now. I could spit in his face, and then lick it off, and then fuck him into the mattress. I could tell him that I've been desperately attracted to him since we were kids. I could spell the ceiling to spell it out for him: <em> I'm in love with you, Simon Snow.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I stand up from my bed and walk over to him, without deciding what I'm going to respond. I sit beside him in his bed, and his eyes widen slightly. </p><p> </p><p>I open my mouth to speak, and the truth comes out. </p><p> </p><p>"You're an idiot," I say. "But I want that too." </p><p> </p><p>The force of his kiss knocks the breath out of me. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p> </p><p>"Crowley, Simon. Slow down or you're going to choke," Penny says to me as I vigorously stuff my face with scones at breakfast.</p><p> </p><p>"Never have before," I respond, with my mouth full. She winces at my impoliteness, but doesn't comment on it. </p><p> </p><p>"Your appetite is back in full force," she notes. </p><p> </p><p>I shrug. I don't know what to say back. <em> 'Yeah, I worked up an appetite from shagging my boyfriend all night until we physically couldn't anymore.'  </em></p><p> </p><p>That would give her a bloody heart attack—especially if I told her my boyfriend is Baz fucking Pitch. (I'll wait until we're in private to tell her.) </p><p> </p><p>I look over at him, where he's sitting at his usual table with Dev and Niall. When I catch him already staring at me, I grin at him. He just raises a single dark eyebrow at me, the handsome prat. </p><p> </p><p>Last night, I feel like we fixed all the broken things between us. Like we found the <em> solution. </em> Even though Baz pointed out that we still have plenty of problems to solve—finding his mother's killer, the Humdrum, the prophecy—it feels better knowing we'll do it together. (Even though I still don't believe it was the Mage who kidnapped him, I promised him I'd find out who it was and decapitate them with my sword. Baz responded sarcastically, <em> "I'm so glad my boyfriend's a homicidal maniac." </em>But his slight smirk told me he appreciated the sentiment.) </p><p> </p><p>I whip out my BlackBerry to send him a text message. </p><p> </p><p><b>Me (9:07 a.m.): </b>nice hair </p><p> </p><p>Baz and I slept in this morning, wrapped up in each other's arms. He was pretty miffed when he realised he wouldn't have time to do his morning routine—but I just kissed him, and he shut right up. (It's like a new superpower, my ability to silence Baz with my lips.) He only barely had time to brush his hair before breakfast, so it's falling in loose strands in front of his face instead of slicked back like a mafia villain today. I love it. </p><p> </p><p>I see Baz get my text message. He raises his eyebrows at me when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and discretely pulls it out to respond under his table.</p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (9:07 a.m.): </b>Fuck off.</p><p><b>Me (9:08 a.m.): </b>no really</p><p><b>Me (9:08 a.m.): </b>you look really fucking fit with your hair like that</p><p> </p><p>Even from over here, I can see he's trying to suppress a grin. I look up to catch his eye, and they're sparkling. It sets my heart on fire to see the mischief in his eyes and know that I'm in on it.</p><p> </p><p>He's typing, and an instant later, my phone's vibrating in my hand. </p><p> </p><p><b>Baz (9:08 a.m.):</b> You don't look so bad yourself, Snow. </p><p> </p><p>I wink at him, and this time, he doesn't seem to be able to help the smile that lights up his face. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>.....and that's that. All of your kind words have meant a lot to me; thank you very much for reading! </p><p>Come find me on <a href="https://annabellelux.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a> (where you will find I've got Simon's chaotic nature and Baz's dark humor)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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